


The True Meaning of Hero

by TFNightingale



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Fluff, Hamish - Freeform, Hamish Watson-Holmes - Freeform, Hamish/Sherlock bonding, Hurt John Watson, Isolated John, John exlusion, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, Misunderstanding, Parent!lock, Parentlock, Romance, Teen Hamish, lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 35,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TFNightingale/pseuds/TFNightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish admires both his parents, but as he reaches a crossroads in his life he feels compelled to decide between his heroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Dog Tags

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I had a prompt and a one shot turned into a novel because I love writing parent!lock too much. I figured there's a lot of cute fluffy young Hamish fics out there and I wanted to explore the difficulties Sherlock and John would face as Hamish grew up, and an angsty teenage 'Mish. (Never fear, there will be flashbacks/memories and toddler 'Mish fluffiness.) This be the prequel-y type bit. I.e the initial prompt response.

Sherlock woke slowly with the growing sunlight, before becoming aware of the small warm form between himself and John. John was lying on his back, his legs splayed at an obscure angle, sleeping soundly. His arms enveloped their son, one hand resting delicately on the mop of soft curls.

Hamish was looking up at Sherlock, his bright eyes open and inquisitive, his small hands gently curled around the dog tags round John’s neck. He’d always held them, since he was a baby, whenever he was in John’s arms. His little fingers would entwine themselves in the chain, the pad of his thumb resting comfortably on the engraved letters of John’s name. John would always wear them on the inside of his shirt. He didn’t like to draw attention to it, but he still relished the feeling of the light metal resting against his chest. It was silent pride, remembrance, respect for his fallen comrades which motivated him to continue wearing them. They were a part of him; not an accessory but and extension of John, a  _feature_  of John in their own right. Sherlock would always wonder if Hamish sensed this, appreciated their true value. His emotional intelligence was stunningly finely tuned, he’d always been able to detect the slightest shifts in moods. He was observant on a level Sherlock wasn’t, he observed  _sentiment_. It was in this trait that Sherlock had first acknowledged that their son was simply the best of both of them in one person. His emulation of John’s moral compass was endearing, for his understanding to be so advanced at his age. Maybe he simply enjoyed the feel of the tags against his soft palms, or marvelled at the different texture. Sherlock suspected it was a longing to be as close to John as possible which would drive a young Hamish to send his tiny fingers through the small folds of fabric between John’s shirt buttons in search of the them. Hamish couldn’t possibly understand then what they were, but that didn’t mean he didn’t acknowledge their significance. He was, after all, a Holmes and thus most certainly not oblivious.

Now, at the age of 5, Hamish was able to identify the sequence of letters which formed John’s name. He’d be able to analyse the curved base which distinguished a ‘T’ from the ‘J’ of ‘John’. He recognised the sound which the circle which followed it made, and the way in which the subsequent letters completed the overall sound of his father’s name. Hamish was actively encouraged to use their names if he so wished. Sherlock didn’t like the idea of pigeon-holing him into a certain form of address. Sherlock disliked the formality and stuffiness of father, and Daddy was far too naïve sounding. Hamish often referred to Sherlock as Dad, and John as Pa, but he was increasingly using their names as his mind developed. Mycroft disapproved, of course, insisted that ‘the boy’ should be more disciplined. Sherlock took great delight in the fact that Hamish frequently called his Uncle “old grumpy guts” to his face.

“He’s definitely your son”, Mycroft had once remarked, his face contorted with a look utter disdain. Sherlock had simply beamed, Hamish replicating a characteristically Sherlockian smirk in the face of Mycroft’s disgust.

Sherlock was smiling again now, as his son looked up from beside him.

“Morning ‘Mish”, he whispered.

A brief smile creased Hamish’s face as he whispered his own muffled greeting, before it fell again. His eyes still shone with curiosity, but the pools of blue were tainted by a hollow, haunted look.

Sherlock had immediately known the reason for his son’s presence. He vaguely remembered John inviting him under the duvet in the early hours of the morning. Hamish, his eyes wide and frightened from another nightmare, had scrambled between them and buried himself under John’s arms, his hands unconsciously seeking the dog tags. He’d come to their room, seeking confirmation that they were both still there, so the nightmare had been about them. Though his eye lids were drooping indicating his fear to fall asleep again, they were not red raw; he’d not cried this time. He was curled into John, clutching possessively at the dog tags; the dream had been about John, then. Sherlock watched as Hamish’s thumb trailed absently over the engraved letters. He traced his son’s line of sight as it flickered briefly to where the chain rested over the scarring on John’s shoulder and then to the metal tags resting in his hands. He’d dreamt of the war again. He’d thrash in his sleep, crying out just as John did, plagued by nightmares which weren’t even his own.

“What does it mean?” he asked, his voice quiet but raw. Sherlock knew he was starting to piece it together; the tags, the scarring, the nightmares. He’d have already deduced the origin of the wound, even if he didn’t understand the circumstances. Sherlock had no doubt that he’d be able to provide an accurate description of the gun model, its range and caliber  the shooter’s distance from its target, maybe even their frame of mind. Hamish was still young, though. Sherlock didn’t want to insult his intelligence by trying to hide John’s past from him and he also didn’t believe in babying him. But he did believe in John, and John was not yet comfortable with burdening their son with that knowledge. Sherlock suspected it was too late for that. They’d have to talk about it soon, but not now.

Sherlock answered his son in a quiet but level tone, stating simply; “It means he’s a hero.”

And for the first time in his life, Hamish Oliver Watson-Holmes did not question the answer, because he knew it was true.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamish is a teenager, Sherlock acts like one and John is frustrated.

“ _Hamish!”_ John called up the stairs to his teenage son's room, not for the first time that morning, to receive the same grumbling response.

 “ _Yes_ , Dad, I'm _coming._ ” Hamish descended the stairs, shoulders slumped slightly, and his satchel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. His school tie sat at a skewiff angle round his neck.

 John heaved a deep sigh at the sight before him. “'Mish...you could at least make an effort. Today's an important day for you.”

 Hamish mirrored John's frustration with a sigh of his own, slinking past him and into the kitchen. He discarded his bag onto the kitchen table, silently slipping two slices of bread into the toaster. John leaned against the door frame, observing him with his lips pursed. Hamish reminded him in so many ways of Sherlock, and not necessarily Sherlock's favourable attributes. Sherlock was, for all intents and purposes, a sulky teenager, and coupling that demeanour with an _actual_ sulky teenager was a difficult cocktail of characteristics. But, as he was with Sherlock, John was hopelessly and stupidly at Hamish's mercy. The boy had a way with words, those piercing blue eyes, that soft innocent look to his face which he had mastered in manipulating to his own ends. He had that overpowering _pull_. John was trying _so hard_ to be irritated, but the clean taught line of his son's shoulders made this impossible; there was a tension there he couldn't explain. Something had shifted in Hamish in recent weeks, as his 18 th birthday seemed an increasingly large blot on the horizon, a beast in his nightmares. He'd tried to bring himself to understand, but the Holmes trait of being infuriatingly difficult to decipher had been another one Hamish had inherited. Sure, John was aware of the stresses that accompanied the choices Hamish was on the verge of making, but a lot had changed. He couldn't deny it: he was getting old, and his views and comprehension of the world were out-dated, and he had already reluctantly resigned himself to the fact that there was little he could do to make these weeks easier for Hamish. Sentiment would push him away, alienate him, frustrate him further, so John simply became the _'dreadfully impossible'_ parent. It was better that way. Everyone in 221B liked it better that way. It was less complicated.

 “Are you even listening to me?”

 The toast popped and Hamish applied copious amounts of strawberry jam with a swift mechanical motion, before turning and heading into the sitting room. He flopped onto the sofa with Sherlockian grace. “Apparently not.” John muttered.

 Sherlock, sat at the desk, tapping away at the keys on John's laptop, quirked an eyebrow. John responded in kind with a short shake of his head, a clear _I don't know. He got that from you. You work it out._ Sherlock made a quick sweep of the scene before him.

 Hamish's uniform was crooked, unusually so. He was always immaculate, like his father. Perfectly pressed trousers and crisp shirt, navy tie done with the most even of knots, both ends matching up perfectly to the point that even the diagonal gold stripes were in line with their counterparts on the opposite end. This morning, however, his tie was at an angle. The small creases in the fabric were just as they always were, the knot still tight and even, but pulled to one side of the line of buttons on Hamish's shirt. It was obvious to Sherlock that he'd tied it as normal in the mirror before drawing it down and across. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the hem of his son's shirt: perfectly pressed, but untucked, displaying similar signs of engineered untidiness. This was a conscious effort, but why? To annoy John? Possible. More likely a signal, a discreet message to Sherlock. Of course John would be irritated at the state Hamish was in, but only Sherlock would notice those tiny details which screamed _this is purposeful, you need to notice this._ Something about today had Hamish on edge, something about today had Hamish dreading the possibility of even finishing his breakfast judging by his laboured chewing.

 Sherlock's gaze flicked to where his son's bag was discarded on the kitchen table. Light, barely any books. In fact, just one, an empty notepad. One pen, Hamish wasn't even concerned enough about the content of today's lessons to consider a spare. Hamish was always concerned about lessons. Today must be different. Off timetable, Sherlock concluded, but for what? He made brief eye contact with Hamish, long enough to notice the minute movement of his head as an affirmative to Sherlock's deduction.

 Ah. _Careers day._

 “Urgh. _Dull.”_ Sherlock muttered.

 Hamish's lips curled upwards slightly as he went to take another bite of his toast.

 “Sorry?” John asked as he settled into his armchair with the morning's paper.

 “The News.” Sherlock responded without missing a beat. It would do no good to contest John on this matter – Hamish had to go to school today – John was always extraordinary stubborn concerning their son's attendance. It was frightfully boring of him, and most inconvenient, especially on those days when Hamish's presence on a case would prove valuable.

 John's eyebrows knitted together in frustration as he rested the newspaper back onto his lap. “Sherlock, you _have_ a case.”

 “A case which I'll have solved by lunch time – at which point I'll require another one. Really John, I'd have thought you'd have been aware of my detective abilities by now” he said, dryly.

 John shot daggers at him, his expression screaming _not the time, Sherlock._

 “It's 8:45, Hamish.” Sherlock stated flatly and in response Hamish gave a hefty sigh and disappeared without so much as a goodbye. They heard the click of the front door as he left, and Sherlock was already typing a message on his phone.

 Hamish was walking hastily down the road to the Baker Street tube station, trying his best to suppress his frustration. His plan had been to make Sherlock realise what an utterly _tedious_ day he had ahead of him. He was certain Sherlock would have objected to John's insistence that he go to school. Evidently he was wrong. The disappointment actually stung. He grimaced to himself: the thought of spending the day listening to endless drivel about making the 'right choices' and 'leaving your options open' and 'formulating a career path' was almost physically painful. He could already feel the headache coming on. As he boarded the next train to pull up at the platform, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  _Mycroft will have a car outside the school by 10:30. Don't tell your Dad. - SH_

 Hamish grinned. Perfect.

  _Thought you'd missed the point for a minute there._

  _I never miss a thing. - SH_

 Of course not. Hamish was already feeling foolish for having doubted him. After all, this wasn't the first time Sherlock had taken him out of school for cases. He smiled to himself the memory of his first case: his 14th Birthday, relatively simple murder, what Sherlock had called 'an easy starter'. His Dad had been fuming when he'd found out.

 “You.Did.What?”, he'd demanded through gritted teeth.

 Hamish had shrugged nonchalantly. “Solved a murder. No biggie.”

 “No b-Hamish...no biggie? You're 14! Sherlock. 14 year old son. Crime scene. No.” Hamish remembered his Dad's reddening face, and Sherlock's unwavering neutral expression. Hamish hadn't technically gone _to_ the crime scene, though he had seen the body, and the murder weapon, and the suspect that Lestrade had already (incorrectly) had arrested. Once he'd got over the initial novelty of the situation, he'd set himself to the task as he would a maths problem and contributed quite effectively and significantly to the eventual conclusion of the investigation. He still remembered the look of pure pride and joy on Sherlock's face, the small curve of his lips, the brightness of his eyes: _not bad._ Why in the hell did Hamish need careers talks when he was so certain he'd already found his calling? Sherlock was certain too, and Hamish had learnt from a very young age that Sherlock Holmes was never wrong.

  _What have we got then?_

  _Triple homicide. - SH_

  _Count me in._

 A wry chuckle escaped Hamish's lips, earning him a cautious glare from the sour looking woman sat across from him: today wasn't going to be such a bad day after all.

 


	3. Trust

Trust is a peculiar thing.

John trusted Sherlock, possibly against his better judgement sometimes, but he did. He trusted him wholly and completely from the very start, without even really considering what it meant. He never truly considered the gravity of that commitment at the beginning, because that's what trust is; a commitment of faith greater than any other.

> ###  _T_ _rust_
> 
> _/trəst/_
> 
> _Firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something._

Sherlock was definitely not the model of reliability, or even truth. Hell, Sherlock had pulled the wool over John's eyes more times than he cared to remember and the man's timing left a lot to be desired. As he sat on that splintered chair in that darkened tramway, a rusted but deadly bolt aimed precisely at Sarah's heart, and the death defying situation waiting for him like an old friend, he'd realised how dangerous it was to trust a man like Sherlock Holmes. He also realised he didn't care, because that's what trust was about wasn't it? Unwavering faith. Trusting someone with your own life is one thing, trusting them to save someone else's is another – John had known at that point he was well and truly screwed – but not once did his belief in Sherlock's ability falter. 

“How would you describe me, John, resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic?” he'd said as he swanned in, emerging from the shadows, his striking form and smooth tone more than answering his own question.

“Late”, John had quipped. _And arrogant. But yes, yes, yes; all of the above. Late but wonderful and fantastic and brilliant: you impossible man._

It was undeniable just how much John had allowed this man to embed himself into his conscious, his subconscious and even his heart. He'd trusted him indefinitely from day one. Day one being the day he'd shot and killed a man in Sherlock's name without missing a beat.

Then, that was the effect war had on a person.

You trust your comrades to keep you safe. You trust your regiment with your life as they trust you with theirs. You watch each others' backs. Nothing can ever replicate the bond a Captain has with his men, his colleagues, his _friends_. You trust them because you have no other choice; it's reckless and restrictive and exhilarating in one fell swoop. Joining the army is a leap of faith. You trust in whoever you end up with, because you have to. The choice to trust is stripped away because it's a requirement of the job. Lacking that trust puts everyone's head on the chopping block, because if you can't trust your own then you're fighting for the wrong side. And this was why John trusted Sherlock, because if there was one thing war had taught him, it was how to read a man's heart.

Sherlock had always said John was lousy at observing – he was right, to an extent. Sherlock's mind was electric and wired and _powerful,_ and John's was no competition for its intricate and delicate cogs. John couldn't read a person's life from the cuffs of their shirt or the subtle creases round their mouth and eyes. John couldn't systematically dissect the most precise workings of a criminal mind from his stride. John couldn't even so much as deduce a password without a prompt.

But John _could_ read a man's heart in his eyes. He could read honesty and reliability and trust in seconds. There was a lot to learn from a man's eyes; the way his pupils transform in the presence of someone he loves, the pattern of his blinking, the glaze of blue or green or brown, the shine of true joy and the tremble of fear, the blinding and exhilarating brightness of sheer _courage._

John could make a judgement on whether to trust a man in mere seconds, because often in a war zone that's all the time you have to know a person – and where's the humanity in damned men not trusting one another?

Sherlock believed his face betrayed not a morsel of his heart. Sherlock believed he didn't even possess a heart. John knew better. Whether John was adept at deciphering the detective, or whether Sherlock simply unknowingly let his façade slip – his mask crumble – when he was alone with the army Doctor, John was unsure. What he was sure of, was the conclusion he'd drawn from those striking blue irises. 

So John had trusted Sherlock: trusted him as a comrade.

Then came the fall. Then came the three years where John Watson's faith in Sherlock Holmes was beaten and stretched and twisted and mutilated. It'd been battered and wounded, but not once broken. His faith was proven to be justified. Those years had pushed and pushed and John had reached the edge more than once, but never jumped.

He'd _trusted_ Sherlock: trusted him as a ghost.

Then came the kiss. (Well, then came the punch and an imaginative assortment of colourful words. The kiss was a result of the aftershock.) And just like that, in a flurry of stolen breath and desperate, longing lips, John had trusted Sherlock all over again: trusted him as a lover. Trusted him with his heart.

Then.

Then came Hamish. _Hamish Oliver Watson-Holmes._ Sherlock Holmes had never been so taken with another human being in all his life. The way he looked at Hamish, the way he'd cradled him as a baby, the way he would affectionately stroke that mop of soft, blonde curls – it startled the air from John's lungs. These moments left John feeling so beautifully blessed, and the startling clarity they gave him simultaneously stopped and then restarted his quivering heart.

Oh John trusted. Trusted with his life. Trusted with his heart. Trusted with his soul. Trusted with their son.

So when Sherlock left the flat so soon after Hamish's moody departure in a flurry of coattails, without so much as a word as to his motives, John didn't so much as look up from his paper. Because that's what trust was. That's what faith was. Only, maybe John had chosen the wrong morning to trust, the wrong morning for suspicion not to prick his placid thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamish enjoys the careers fair more than he'd anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing Hamish in this chapter; it's really quite fun to play with such a diverse range of characteristics from both John and Sherlock and form them into just one character, but I am still finding my feet with 'Mish so do please bear with me.

Hamish was a skilled actor. Not in the thespian sense – such activities were trivial and nonsensical – but in the sense that he had a refined ability to deceive, much like his father. Though, when Sherlock was bored beyond measure he didn't make such an exhaustive effort to disguise it. Hamish had inherited a suitable level of emotional intelligence from John and was thus more subtle about his boredom, slyly and silently manipulating situations to work in his favour, whereas Sherlock’s stubborn and brazen approach adopted no regard for the reactions of the idiot who was boring him. And so, rather than engaging in a display of his obviously superior intellect, Hamish wallowed in the continuous hum of various 'industry professionals' in the crowded school hall. He took the opportunity to brush up on his skills of deduction. It was the Holmes equivalent of people watching: observing every minute detail about an individual and plotting their whole life as a map, stretched out through his consciousness.

Hamish cast his eyes across the room to a stand for the local bank. The banker, large and balding, and evidently uncomfortable in the suit he was wearing. Maybe because it was a bit snug and he'd gained weight, more likely because of its expense. Not a fat cat banker – evident from the low quality, faux gold watch on his wrist and the age of his mobile phone; two or three years old at least, at least 3 new models had since succeeded it. No, this man did _not_ have any substantial disposable income, the suit was his most expensive item of clothing. Why wear your most valuable item to a school careers fair? Hamish let his mind skitter over the facts once more in an evaluative swoop. _Overweight, lacking in confidence, expensive suit, but lacking the money to support a lavish lifestyle..._

“Your boss is a liar”, Hamish began coolly as he approached the stand. “There is no promotion, he just wanted you out of the office – you're an embarrassment to the franchise. I'd advise a career change.” Hamish offered an exaggerated sympathetic smile as the banker stood, simply gawping. He finally closed his mouth into a tight firm line and clenched his fist around the paper cup in his right hand, crushing it and spilling its contents.

“No need to thank me. Consider it a public service.” With that, Hamish retreated back into the throbbing crowd of students.

 _Obviously hit a raw nerve. I'd say you were spot on there, 'Mish,_ he thought to himself. He allowed himself a small chuckle as he surveyed the room for his next focus. A hairdresser; early 30s – promoting a criminally low paid apprenticeship in hair and beauty – whose recent breakup and subsequent desperation were written plainly all over her make-up caked face and low cut top. _Dull_. His eyes flicked to the next table; an unremarkable accountant, old hat at the job and unwillingly pushed into the careers fair circuit as he approached retirement. _Equally dull._

Hamish's unsatisfactory assessment of the room's offerings was abruptly halted by the middle aged man he saw struggling through the main door across the room. He was propping the door open with one foot as he hauled his case through, followed by a display board; _Where can the British Army take you?_

Hamish spied the man's destination: the last empty table only a couple of feet from where he was stood. He observed the man's approach silently, eyeing him with a tempered curiosity. He watched him fumble with the handle on the case, attempting to extend it in order to drag both it and the display board simultaneously. In a few strides, Hamish had moved to meet him, silently taking the display board from the man's grasp and leading him to the waiting table. His hands found their way back into the pockets of his school trousers and he resumed his earlier observational stance. The man looked at him, his grey eyes yielding curiosity. Hamish wasn't used to looks like that, people would usually run a mile, but this man was utterly unphased by him. Battle worn eyes, older than the rest of his face, withered and aged by war. Hamish was acutely aware of the fact that the man's hands had halted in their habitual actions of unpacking leaflets and information packs from the case onto the table. He straightened, turning fully to face Hamish.

“Do you realise how feckin' bizarre that is to witness, lad?” The question came in melodious Irish tones. Hamish placed the accent almost immediately: County Tipperary. He quirked an eyebrow, urging him to continue. Whatever he was going to say, Hamish had deemed it worthy of listening to. Something in the way this man had looked at him made Hamish intrigued to discover what he had observed. He continued as he rounded the table, setting out the leaflets across it's surface. “The way your demeanour shifts like that. Wee bit Jekyll and Hyde, don'cha think?”

Hamish's brow furrowed, and his lips curled into a tight curve of displeasure. Apparently this man was more observant than Hamish usually gave the general populous credit for. Nobody had ever noticed those tiny movements before; the way his shoulders stiffened suddenly, like he was suddenly remembering himself having lapsed for a moment in letting his usual façade slip. Hamish Watson-Holmes was trapped between the two halves of himself – his parents – and the only problem was working out which side was Jekyll and which was Hyde. He feared they were both an eclectic mix of the two. This man was right though, there were two distinct parts to Hamish and, whilst not a single person had noticed before, when he made the transition, the difference between the two was quite startling. There was John; the side that had helped this man without missing a beat. Then there was Sherlock; the side that had snapped back into the icy cold exterior, silently cataloguing every minute detail of this man from behind glazed blue eyes. Details such as the dulling bronze insignia badge pinned to the man's blazer: the image of a rearing horse – it's proud mount wielding a flag, arm stretched towards the heavens...or indeed the crown of flame-like whisps which topped the badge. Despite the deterioration of its sheen, the majority of the lettering was still identifiable, not that Hamish needed them – he recognised the badge's origin without their prompting.

“Northumberland Fusiliers”, Hamish remarked, nodding towards the badge's position on the lapels of the man's jacket.

“Ah, so's you know your insignia, do ya'?” An impressed and knowing smile crossed the stranger's face.

“I know that one.”

“Private George Benson, formally of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.” He extended a hand, which Hamish took into a brief but firm handshake.

“Like the soul singer.”

There was a rumbling chuckle as George's mouth creased into a wry but amused grin. “Son, if I had a pound for every time I'd heard that one in my 40 years, I wouldn't be doing the rounds of London's secondary schools every year.” He sobered up, clearing his throat and straightening himself, shifting his weight onto his right leg and smoothing down his jacket, as though he'd just remembered why he was there and who he was supposed to be representing. “So, interested in a career with your nation's armed forces, eh?” He offered Hamish a leaflet, which he took without acknowledgement and folded into the inside pocket of his blazer.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I-I'm sorry, what?” George swallowed, his face contorting with confusion. “How did you-”

Hamish cut him off. “I didn't know, I _saw._ The reason you're here today, on the behalf of the MOD, you're wearing your regiment insignia and introduced yourself as 'Private' so we both know how I knew your military affiliation. As for the exact conflict you were involved in, a few observations made is easy to alienate those two. The way you walk, a slight lull in your gate – unnoticed by most people, but evident to me that you have either a whole or partial prosthetic, am I right?” George confirmed the deduction by nodding. “ _But_ , you don't take a chair, you stand, like you've forgotten about it. That, coupled with your obvious skill at managing with the prosthetic, implies the injury was obtained some time ago. You're only in your 40s, so you could still have been serving up until very recently, but no, you were discharged years ago. Before I was born, if not shortly after. So, where has there been a major military conflict in the last 18 years involving the British and specifically your regiment? Afghanistan or Iraq.”

George blinked several times, opening his mouth briefly before forcing it closed again before he could stammer a humiliatingly weak response. He quickly collected himself, however. “Afghanistan.” Hamish nodded, as if to confirm that he thought as such. “Bugger me. That was feckin' fantastic, if you'll pardon m' French.”

Hamish couldn't refrain from grinning. He was buzzing in a post-deduction haze, unashamedly impressed with himself. “Eh, I have been working on it.”

His attention was abruptly stolen from bathing in his own pride and the basking in the impressed expression of Private Benson by his mobile phone buzzing in his pocket.

_Car is outside the front gate. Don't keep me waiting, young man. MH_

He smirked. Today just got better and better. Here was his lift, and thus his escape from the tedium of careers day and into the realm of his first triple homicide investigation.

“Pleasure meeting you, Private Benson, but I really must dash – family business.” With that, he turned on his heel and all but skipped towards the exit.

“And what family business is that then, lad?” George called after him, his voice mirthful,

Hamish smirked, turning to look back, throwing his arms wide enthusiastically.

“I'm a Holmes. Make a deduction!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Private George Benson is based on a real soldier. He fought with the Northumberland Fusiliers in the Great War (The First World War) and was enlisted in Nenagh, Co. Tipperary in 1917 and died in the same year. 
> 
> He also shares his name with a popular soul singer from the 60s, 70s and 80s. 
> 
> For the sake of this fic, I'm going on the assumption that the conflict in Afghanistan ended shortly after John was invalided home, so around 2014, and was thus over when Hamish was born. Of course, there are still servicemen and women out there at the moment and my thoughts and support are with each and every one of them, and no offense is intended in any instances in which the war may be referred to lightheartedly throughout this fic.


	5. Chapter 5

Hamish was humming with nervous energy as he made his way across the school grounds. The anticipation was coursing through each of his vertebrae in turn, urging him forward into a run. The muscles in his legs propelled him forward of their own accord, his body acting completely independent of thought, as if each cell in his body was wholly and completely sentient, and he was completely at their mercy. He rounded the corner of the science building, the scent of sulphur, methane, ethanol, pricking into his adrenaline heightened senses. His legs reluctantly slowed, steadying back to a walking pace as he made his final turn towards the front gate. It wouldn't do for his Uncle to witness him so excitable. It would only further lower his opinion of him; he'd think him nothing but a hyperactive child. Hamish's posture stiffened, his face masking the unrelenting throb of wired thoughts swarming his mind; the endless and thrilling possibilities presented by this new case. And in that instant he was reminded of Private George Benson's words.

_Jekyll and Hyde._

Was that what he was? He supposed it fit. Two halves of the same person: the ability to switch between the two like the flipping of a coin – heads to tails. An _inability_ to make these two halves form a cohesive whole.

_Maybe there's something wrong with me,_ he considered, most certainly not for the first time. He was just like Sherlock in that sense. Always the outsider, always the _freak_. Not to his parents though – Sherlock understood him. Despite Sherlock's reluctance to admit it, Hamish was going through the same turbulence that he'd always suffered growing up. Hamish often found himself contemplating what a lonely childhood, no, what a lonely _existence_ Sherlock must have had.

Sherlock didn't have the luxury of two parents who understood him like a skilled watchmaker could decipher the most intricate workings of the most beautifully complex clock. The way an engineer could understand the elegant mechanics of an aircraft, knowing exactly which pieces made her purr beneath her pilot's fingers. No, Sherlock's life had been lonely and isolated, before John anyway. Sherlock had John, and now Hamish had them both. But he still couldn't keep the dark spectre of that loneliness from haunting him, not always. He withdrew from his thoughts as he opened the door of the sleek black car waiting for him, swiftly changing his expression, smoothing the creases of his furrowed brow.

_There you go again,_ Hamish thought. _Jekyll and Hyde._ It took him considerable effort to keep the grimace from his face as he chastised himself internally. _Half man, half monster._

“Hamish”, Mycroft drawled, a sickly sweet smile plastered on his face.

Hamish responded in kind, “Uncle”. He pulled the door closed before adding dryly, “Managed to find time in your busy schedule of being the British Government for family? How gallant of you.”

Mycroft's nose wrinkled in displeasure, and Hamish smirked triumphantly. He'd always taken great delight from his Uncle's disgruntled expressions. There was no malice in it, it was simply boyish hijinks, and if Mycroft was true to himself he'd probably admit that he secretly enjoyed it. The constant tit-for-tat exchanges were a strange form of affection, but Hamish had long since resigned himself to the fact that it was just _'the Holmes way'._ As he'd grown up one of his favourite experiments was _“which of my many annoyances will contort Mycroft's face in the most interesting way?”._ He vividly remembered the first time he'd called his Uncle “grumpy guts”, aged just five years old; the way Mycroft's features had shifted like the shapes in a kaleidoscope, aligning in a new model of discontent.

“Well”, Mycroft continued, “My brother can be quite stubborn on matters concerning you.” He turned to look squarely at his nephew, “he was quite adamant that I escort you personally to the crime scene. Quite what difference he believes it makes is beyond me. But then, he is so often deliberately obtuse.”

“He knew it would irritate you”, Hamish shot back bitterly, “which I'm judging to have been a correct assessment.”

Mycroft pointedly ignore his comment. “I must express how _thrilled_ I am to see you pursuing the family business with such gusto, dear Hamish.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Your parents must be so proud”. Hamish bristled beside him. The mockery he could deal with, but he wouldn't be held responsible for his actions should Mycroft descend into slurs against his parents – of any shape or form. He gritted his teeth, desperately holding his tongue, resisting the urge to deploy a ruthless retort about Mycroft's _poorly-kept-secret_ _relationship_ with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft must have read this thought clearly on his nephew's face, as he stiffened slightly, his mouth forming a tight line.

“I'd tread very carefully if I was you, young man. I can make your life very _very_ difficult.”

“I make it difficult enough by myself, thanks” Hamish mumbled beneath his breath, turning his face away briefly before withdrawing his mobile phone from his pocket. As he did so, it buzzed in his hand, indicating an incoming text message.

_Ignore him. SH_

Hamish let his fingers fly swiftly over the keys, typing out a response.

_How did you know he'd said anything?_

_He's my brother. He always says something. SH_

Hamish allowed himself a small smile. Mycroft may have thrown his sarcastic comments around with the intent of ruffling feathers, but Hamish couldn't help but realise just how _true_ his words were. His parents _were_ proud of him. Sherlock impossibly so, though he'd never confess as such. Hamish could see it in the way he looked at him lately, like nothing in the world could ever taint the pride he had in his son, his son who'd followed him so ardently into the career he loved so much. Hamish knew he had a long way to go to reach the levels of finesse with which Sherlock solved a case, to be able to dissect something with such precision, but each time he'd made a spot on deduction or pinpoint accurate observation, he would steal a look at his father. He revelled in the look that crossed Sherlock's features when he made progress, each time his skills were sharpened just that little bit further. Yes, Sherlock was proud of him, there was no doubt. Hamish was certain John was proud of him too, but it was difficult for John to be proud of a talent he wasn't witnessing blossom before him in the way Sherlock was.

For the first time, Hamish considered how his Dad would feel when he discovered that Hamish had decided to pursue an investigative career. Would he be disappointed that Hamish was following the blazing footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, and not taking after him? Hamish suspected this was an impossibility. His Dad was a kind spirit, a gentle man with an honest heart; he did not harbour such inane feelings as jealousy or disappointment. Yet, Hamish couldn't help but gnaw on that nagging feeling in the back of his mind. When would he be able to tell his Dad? When would _this_ be okay? It frustrated him – the underling sense of guilt that came with having to go behind his Dad's back. But the decision had been made for him by his Dad's restrictive and incessant _worrying._ It was suffocating him. If keeping the odd case here and there a secret was what was required to keep the peace, surely that was a price worth paying?

Hamish composed another message to Sherlock, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He closed his eyes briefly before hitting send.

_Dad won't be too mad about this, will he?_

Sherlock would outlive God trying to have the last word, and yet this text remained without response.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamish visits his first proper murder scene, and is thrown in at the deep end with a case inherently more intriguing than Sherlock had expected.
> 
> And we briefly revisit the wonderings of a certain Private Benson.

“What have we got?” Hamish and Sherlock had posed the question in perfect synchronisation.

Lestrade fixed them with a glare. “Do you mind not doing that?” He gestured vaguely in the space between them. “Gives me the creeps.”

Sherlock gave an irritated tut before meandering swiftly through the huddle of forensics personnel and sinking to his haunches beside the body which was face down in the foliage. Hamish followed at a slightly slower pace, with Lestrade in tow, documenting the surroundings. They were beneath a redundant railway bridge in the darker corners of Camden town. The undergrowth had been left to spread and multiply like bacteria on the once intricate Victorian stonework. Those old cobbles had probably seen their fair share of criminal activity over the years; drug deals taking place in the darkened shelter, out of view. Hamish wondered if this was the first body to grace its twisted and tangled undergrowth. His evaluative gaze followed the trail of flattened weeds leading to the unfortunate victim. The body had clearly been dragged, a lone assailant then?

“Try again.” Sherlock was stood behind him, obviously having followed his line of sight and read Hamish's deduction plainly in his face. “Look closer. Come on Hamish it's in the _detail”,_ he urged.

Hamish gave a sharp nod before sinking closer to the ground to re-evaluate his earlier conclusion. Sherlock, of course, was right. The body had been dragged, yes, but there were clear marks of more than one set of shoes having moved through the tracks.

“Two.” Sherlock affirmed this by nodding.

“Good. Now, see what you can tell me about the body.” Sherlock began walking back towards the unfortunate 30-something splayed out on the ground, but Hamish remained where he was.

“Hold on. Why? If there were two of them why was the body dragged - because it clearly was. What was the second person doing, just watching? Bit chuffin' lazy if you ask me, but _why_?” He ran a hand through his hair, musing the thick curls. He turned his back to Sherlock, and mimed dragging a corpse as he continued his monologue. He could see Sherlock out the corner of his eye, his face passive, giving nothing away, but he knew he was listening. “Our vic' was dragged, on his front, like this. The person dragging him was moving backwards. Look, here.” He pointed to an area of disturbed soil. “Scuff marks. He stumbled.” He spotted two more similar marks as he moved further. “Several times”, he amended. “Not the mark of an organised, experienced criminal.”

“So the real question here is...” Sherlock encouraged.

“Who was our number two?” Hamish continued. He paused, and sniggered. “Number two”, he repeated under his breath, at which Sherlock fixed him a look, raising one indignant eyebrow, which clearly expressed sentiment along the lines of ' _Really Hamish? We're at a crime scene, stop being such a child.'_

That was the truth of it though, wasn't it? Hamish _was_ a child. No matter how much Sherlock tried to repress the idea, no matter how many times he regarded his son's tall lean frame and those features which he could manipulate to pass for a man twice his age, Hamish was still a child. That was a fact. 17 years old and still very much a child, and moments like this, just tiny and otherwise insignificant moments like this served only to amplify this assertion. Child; a word that tasted so very bitter on his tongue and so felt so very raw in his head. It brought him doubt, and there was no feeling Sherlock Holmes despised more than doubt. Bounding up to the body in front of him was a child, _his child_ , and they were at a crime scene, _a murder scene._ What were they doing here? Doubt. An ugly and destructive element against which Sherlock had endured a relentless struggle, and here it was again raising up on its hind legs and thrashing violently through his mind palace. But when Sherlock saw the way Hamish looked up at him, his eyes searching and full of hope and expectation; a begging to be noticed and approved of and _praised_ , it was hard for Sherlock not to just silence the beast. Hamish was happy, and enjoying this, and surely his son's happiness was paramount. So Sherlock Holmes allowed himself a small smile, and moved to observe as his son surveyed the body.

He was speaking out loud, obviously eager to demonstrate just how much progress he'd made.

“...marks on the wrist confirm the dragging hypothesis – not that I really needed any confirmation. Mottling of the skin indicates he was on his back when he died, but was then moved and left on his front. Arms by his sides, rather than above his head from the dragging...he was positioned, conscious decision?”

“Organised offender.” Lestrade piped up. “They position the body; murders are usually well thought out.”

“Interesting hypothesis”, Hamish acknowledged, looking up at him. “But wrong I'm afraid. At least to an extent. Are you seriously telling me you buy into the 'two typologies' crap? Murderers don't all fit into one of two categories, Greg.”

“Go on then, smart arse...” he rejoined light-heartedly “...do enlighten me.”

“Well, we've already concluded that whoever left this body here was hardly a competent criminal.”

“Interesting choice of adjective.” Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock was beaming. Hamish was so like him sometimes that is was scary and endearing in equal measure. But the way he interacted with Lestrade...calling him _Greg_ , it was like they were family. Sherlock considered that perhaps they were; Lestrade was certainly closer to being an Uncle to Hamish than Mycroft was. Lestrade treated Hamish much in the same way he had always treated Sherlock. There was the façade of the long suffering Detective Inspector who had to tolerate the endless Holmes antics, and then there was the truth, because Lestrade cared hopelessly and endlessly about them. He always had. He'd saved Sherlock, and that was the long and short of it. He'd literally pulled him from the gutter and given him the time and attention that everyone else had failed to. Of course he'd paid the price for his generosity, more than once, but he'd treated Sherlock like a son, and Hamish was blessed with the same treatment. Sherlock had never thanked him. He never would, of course, but even Lestrade wasn't that dense – he _knew._ It went unsaid, but they both knew what Lestrade had done for him, they both knew that Sherlock would forever be grateful, and they both knew he was too proud to admit it. Greg had made sacrifices for Sherlock, and Sherlock knew he had never once done a single thing to deserve it, but he did know that his son deserved every ounce of Lestrade's attention and adoration which came his way. That and more, because Hamish returned that sentiment. He was like Sherlock in that he often treated Lestrade like an idiot – deservedly so, mostly, because Lestrade _was_ so often an idiot – but Hamish never treated him like he was unappreciated. Hamish had never taken him for granted, not once, and that was why Sherlock was certain that his son was already a better man that he was...

Sherlock was suddenly hauled from his thoughts by the sound of Hamish's voice, grave but laced with a tempered excitement, demanding “I need to see the other bodies. Now.” He snapped his eyes down to the body, where Hamish had pulled aside the torn and stained t-shirt to reveal, carved roughly into the flesh of the victim's back, the word _sorry._

******

George Benson was under the impression the unpredictable days were behind him. 5 years in the British army and two tours of Afghanistan were enough to saturate anyone's pallet for adventure. He'd long since succumbed to the gentle and unassuming lull of civilian life. Life was unremarkable and he had come to like it that way. The last time he'd allowed the lure of excitement to entwine him in its trap he'd ended up in a war zone and yet, when an extraordinary young man threw him completely off kilter on a perfectly ordinary morning doing his perfectly ordinary job in a perfectly ordinary school, he'd found himself blazing that same old trail again.

George couldn't quite put his finger on what made this boy so...there wasn't even a word. He just was. All angles, pale contours and perfectly thrown shadows, enchanting blue eyes coordinating perfectly giving an overwhelmingly aristocratic air. It should have been intimidating, that lean, sleek form with its harsh lines and dark shadows, but there was a warmth to him. Those eyes radiated a soft emulation of a look he knew so well, but struggled to assign to a face. His light curls framed his face just so, giving him an angelic aura whilst not giving him the associated innocent roundness to his face. It was like each feature of him had within it the direct contrasting element and they were competing for a foothold in the foundations of this remarkable teenage boy. George had no explanation for it, at least not until the word _Holmes_ left his lips. In that moment the pieces of the puzzle that were the Holmes boy adjusted and manoeuvred to accommodate each other, not quite harmonising, but co-existing, and George Benson had seen and heard all he needed to. He had not completed his day's work, in fact he had not even started it. He left that unremarkable school soon after the remarkable boy. He'd placed the look in the boy's eyes, and there was no mistaking it, and that was how he found himself at 221B Baker street.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A military reunion of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to my friend Lea for helping me out with this chapter by RPing some of the dialogue out with me to get the ideas going! It was a huge help my sweet, and the fact that this chapter came out so long is a testament to how much of your input I felt I just had to use! This chapter is dedicated to you, my dear.

 

John swallowed thickly, granting the man stood in the doorway of 221B a double take. He'd been trundling through his regular morning, typing up the most recent of Sherlock's cases on his blog. Then there had come the sound of those old wooden stairs groaning under the tread of an old friend, and the appearance of Private George Benson had thrown John's 'regular' morning completely. John wasn't sure at which point in his gawping and staring assessment he'd actually risen from his seat, but now he was face to face with his old comrade.

“Benson”

“Captain Watson”

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” John asked, still disbelieving. “Christ, Benson it's been what...”

“Nearly 20 years” George finished, nodding. “Nice to see you too, by the way” he added sarcastically.

John barked a laugh and clapped him on the back. “Take a seat, I'll put the kettle on.”

****

“So,” John began, hands curling around the warm ceramic. He couldn't have sounded more awkward, but just where did someone start when addressing a person they'd only ever known in a war zone? Sure, John had respected George – he was a promising young private, his head was screwed on and he was clued up – and he'd genuinely liked the guy, they'd got along well, but so much time had passed and they'd shared so many horrific memories. Was it really possible for a friendship to remain between them, the way it had, with so much guilt weighing on him? John had to be honest with himself and acknowledge the fact that he hadn’t really thought about George all that much over the last 20 years – life with Sherlock doesn’t allow a lot of time for quiet contemplation. But sometimes he’d think of him when he woke up from his nightmares; a flash of his face as he was slowly brought back into consciousness. One thing was certain though, John was bloody glad to see him. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed company that wasn’t Sherlock or Hamish. He _would_ go for pints with Lestrade on occasion but really the only thing they had in common was Sherlock. This was the first contact with someone outside of his crazy crime-solving life in such a very long time. It was honestly a relief, but John struggled to suppress the feelings of guilt for leaving Benson behind, and noticing his old comrade's slight limp and identifying his prosthetic only multiplied this guilt. Of course that was never his fault – but it was in his nature to blame himself regardless.

“Bloody hell”, he muttered, chuckling somewhat nervously. “God, it's good to see you, Benson. Really good.”

“You too, Cap’.” He gave a grave chuckle, casting a brief glance at his leg. That damned leg. “Seems I missed you so much that I went and got m’self injured just to follow your sorry ass home.” He noticed the look in John’s eyes, he’d seen it so many times in the time they’d served together. John had an absurd habit of blaming himself for everyone he couldn’t save. “Long story short”, he continued seeing the unspoken question in John’s eyes, “About 5 months after you were out, routine morning patrol. Wind picked up, you know what that sand and dust is like in those storms - visibility goes to complete shite. Got me separated from Sampson. Before I know it I’m off the beaten track and being thrown in the air by an IED. That was it, goodnight Vienna. Woke up minus a leg in the field hospital.” He gave a good-natured chuckle, offering John a reassuring smile. “Perks of the job, eh?” he added finally.

"Perks of the job indeed." John smirked, rubbing absently at the old wound on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, George”, he added, nodding towards his leg.

“Not your fault, mate. I knew what I signed up for.” He deployed his trademark micheivous smile. “It has its advantages...gets interesting at parties.”

John rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously telling me you've downed beer out of that thing?” George's smirk gave John the answer.

“I'd have been a disgrace to my country if I hadn't”, he responded with a wink. And with that they both erupted into unreserved and hearty laughter.

There was a brief silence hanging between them. It wasn’t heavy in the air though, it was light and comfortable – just a familiar glow of companionship. “How about you then? Sherlock Holmes, eh?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve been busy these 20 years.” He blushed slightly, rubbing a hand nervously at the back of his neck. “I-I’ve been following that blog of yours quite closely. Quite the life you’ve made for yourself. One half of the golden duo.”

"Ha. Well, I'm never bored." John laughed lightly.

George nodded, his expression bright with new interest. "I can imagine. A particular favourite of mine was 'The Speckled Blonde'. Bizarre.”

"Not the weirdest I've seen, believe me." John chuckled, taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

George nodded again, tapping his thumb absently against the side of his mug. "It's good you've kept busy. God knows it's bloody difficult to get away from stuff people like us would rather forget."

John looked down at where his hands were clasped around his mug, but offered a gentle smile before giving a slight nod. John had been lost on his return from Afghanistan. Benson had hit the nail on the head really, indirectly, – it was his life with Sherlock that had drawn him away from it all. The war, and what was his life now, felt like the memories of two separate people to him. There was a time when the images of his service would play over and over in the forefront of his mind, plaguing every waking hour and only intensifying whenever he closed his eyes at the end of the day, but being with Sherlock had scratched at the film. Now they merely flickered like an old movie – nothing but a horror story.

“Took me feckin’ ages.” George continued, looking down into his now empty mug which he rolled absently between his hands. “Civilian life didn’t exactly sit well will me to start with. Took me a while to realise that it wasn’t life as a civilian that disagreed with me so much, but life as an amputee.” George stopped himself abruptly. He wasn’t sure how much more he should be saying, he honestly hadn’t intended on making this visit a post-war shit-story sharing session. John seemed completely at ease with the conversation though. George imagined that, like him, this was possibly the first time he’d had the opportunity to share these memories with someone who was both _there and understood_ , and whom he trusted and respected.

“Spent at least 18 months feeling sorry for myself”, Benson added. John remained silent. He could see each and every day of those 18 months in the creases around his old comrade’s eyes; they’d aged him significantly. War had that effect. It cultivated bitterness and relentless nightmares. “Took a slap across the face to bring me to my senses. Night I sacked my therapist in a drunken rage, landlord’s daughter – barely even knew the lass – gave me a cold hard wallop.” Benson gave that trademark, mischievous grin which John knew so well and chuckled. “She’s now me’ wife.”

John let out a good natured laugh, smiling broadly. He watched as George returned his smile, and followed his gaze where it had settled behind him on the skull that had become such a normal presence in the flat.

George cocked his head towards the mantle. "Friend of yours?"

John smiled. "Friend of Sherlock's. Well, I say _friend”,_ he said, echoing his flatmate's words when John himself had inquired about the skull all those years ago.

"Ah”, George responded simply. He had rarely been phased by anything in the time John had known him, and apparently he wasn't going to start now. "Sherlock Holmes then...”, he continued. “What's it like living with the 'Great Detective'?"

“That's 'The World's Only Consulting Detective' to you”, John corrected with a smirk. He shrugged. "Same as living with anyone else. Except Sherlock's...not like everyone else."

“You can say that again. Man’s a genius. That trick he does...the one where he tells you your life story...” He puffed out his cheeks briefly before expelling the air. “Brilliant”

"Brilliant? That he is." John smiled to himself. He chuckled lightly before adding “He's also a colossal pain in the arse.” George barked a laugh at that, shaking his head slightly whilst shooting John a quizzical look. “See those bullet holes in the wall?” John continued. George cast a glance at the smiley face which had become such a trademark part of 221B and nodded, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “He was _bored_ ”, John clarified.

“Bloody hell.” He cast his eyes back over to the fireplace. “And the cluedo?” he enquired with a mirthful smirk.

John shook his head, giggling. “Best not to go there.” Benson gave a knowing smile, he could see the look of pure warmth and adoration in John’s eyes. He’d already observed the way his eyes seemed to light up whenever Sherlock’s name was mentioned. It was refreshing to see an old comrade so happy, previous reunions had never gone so well. But John was happy, he’d built a life for himself, and George found himself thanking every deity he could fathom for the blessing of seeing his Captain Watson so contently settled. He thanked them for the blessing of Sherlock Holmes for making him that way.

John cleared his throat. “Enough on me, you’ve probably read it all on the blog anyway. Trust me you don’t want to hear any more about Sherlock, I’d be here all day reeling off his endless annoyances. Tell me about your wife.” John took another sip of his tea as he settled back into his chair slightly.

George gave John a warm smile. “Sarah”, he began gazing off somewhere into the mid-distance. “Rose to my thorn, that woman. Dragged me through the mud by m'ear and I love her for it. Hold on...” He shifted slightly where he was sat, and pulled out a battered old leather wallet, flicking it open and withdrawing a photo and leaning over to bridge the gap between himself and John to hand it over. It was a wedding photo; George in his regiment’s parade uniform, and his wife stood next to him radiant and happy in an ivory wedding gown. Her heart-shaped face, framed by long, sleek, ebony hair, boasted startling green eyes. “Beauty isn’t she?” George remarked, beaming.

John mirrored his grin, a comforting warmth had descended on the room, and both men were practically glowing in each others contentedness. “Kids?” John asked.

“Ah. No...we can't. Courtesy of the Taliban” George responded grimly.

“Oh George, I'm sorry...”

George held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. We've come to terms with it. Besides, got a cracking niece to make up for it.” He withdrew another photo, handing it to John as he handed back the wedding snap. John smiled down at the photo in his hands; beaming up at him was a young girl, six or seven years of age, with fiery red hair in thick waves and emerald green eyes. Freckles dappled her dimpled cheeks. George identified her as Darcy - his features illuminated by pride.

“She's gorgeous”, John remarked.

“And a little trouble maker” George added. “She's a riot that kid.”

“Of course she is – it's in the Benson genes.”

“Met your lad earlier today.”

“Hamish? When?” John's brow furrowed slightly, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“I had a talk to give at his school. He didn't exactly stick around though. Surprised he's not here actually, he said he was leaving for family business.”

The colour drained from John's face. “Oh god.” And just like that, the warm aura that had cloaked the room had been shattered. Suddenly the pieces were coming together – Sherlock's swift exit, Hamish leaving school early. He swallowed thickly, he'd been so convinced that they'd listened to him for once, that for _once_ perhaps they'd reached an understanding. Apparently was wrong to ever have had the faith in them both that they wouldn't betray him and go behind his back like this. He gave a deep breath, steadying himself.

“He didn't mean family business”, John stated grimly. “He meant _the_ family business.” He launched himself up from his chair, pacing to the other side of the room and running a hand through his hair. “Sherlock's taken him to a bloody crime scene.” George didn't have to be a genius to work out how very not okay this was. He could clearly see John's internal conflict flashing across his features. He could see the muscles in John's arms drawing tight as he clenched his fists. He startled slightly when John slammed his fist down onto the kitchen table, then eliciting a furious, almost growl-like noise from his mouth. John turned back to face his friend, his face falling slightly. He sighed.

"George, I'm sorry...It's just, you think you've done everything you can for a kid you know?" He ran his hands over his face, puffing out a short breath. George found himself wishing he hadn't met John's eyes then, because in that moment he'd seen a man more broken than the one who left him behind in Afghanistan. There was something more torturous than just hurt in those eyes; it was a sense of _betrayal._ "I thought we'd...I don't know...reached an understanding on this", John continued. "I thought we had this. I'm not sure who I feel worse about...I guess it's the sort of thing I expect from Sherlock..." he sighed again, "but Hamish. I just...god this really tops everything, doesn't it?"

Without a word, Benson place his mug on the floor next to his feet, and stood up. When John cast him a weary and questioning look, he said simply “Get in touch with whoever it is you need to. I'll drive.” John silently considered this for a few seconds before George insisted “No arguments.”

John gave a grateful nod, pulling his phone from his pocket as they descended the stairs and left the flat. He composed a new message to Lestrade, grimacing slightly as he hit send.

_You have approximately 60 seconds to tell me where the hell Sherlock and Hamish are. JW_

As they settled into the drive through London's streets, with Scotland Yard as their first port of call, the pair felt a somewhat haunting familiarity wash over them. The Private had been reunited with his Captain. It was time for old friendships to reignite. Private Benson had been certain he'd put his army days to bed, but it had transpired that the old beast was waking, and preparing for a new mission.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is no excuse for how late this chapter is, so my apologies. It is, however, a relatively long chapter so hopefully that will make up for it? Please don't come to my door with pitchforks and flaming torches.

Fuming was the only word for it. If this had been a cartoon, George could have sworn he'd have been able to see the steam coming off John in the passenger seat. In all the years they'd served together he'd never seen John angry like this. He'd seen him angry in the _you've just shot one of my men and you'll pay for it in blood_ kind of way. In the all consuming possessive way which always rendered Captain Watson a force to be reckoned with. A passionate and driven rage: controlled fury. But now a red mist had descended and the rage was so much more. The rage was an inferno fuelled by betrayal, heartbreak and flickers of regret and even guilt. It wasn't a vengeful anger targeting an enemy, it was a whirlwind and all it was destined for was all out destruction and devastation. Benson couldn't let John inflict that kind of damage – he needed time to work through the raw anger which was coursing through him and collect himself. Which is why George was grateful when the reply from Lestrade directed them to St Bart's hospital, the change of direction extending the journey time and buying time for John's emotions to order themselves. Yet, George still opted for the longest route he could manage through London's streets without arousing suspicion. If John had recognised what his old friend was doing, he certainly didn't acknowledge it. The drive remained silent, and any conversation remained gridlocked in the jam of unwavering tension.

Eventually, John puffed out a breath and slumped backwards, pressing his back further into the passenger seat. He closed his eyes, drawing long steady breaths in through his nose and expelling them through his slightly pursed lips.

Benson took the opportunity to speak; quiet and level. “Forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, mate, but maybe you could reach a compromise on this.” John's eyes snapped open suddenly, his pupils blown wide, and his gaze fixed hard on George's face. He remained silent however, and Benson continued. “I mean, you don't even know what the case is yet, y'know? Could be a cold case; nothing but trawling through old records in search of something the ol' bill missed the first time round. I mean, I know that's probably not considered a _normal_ pastime for someone his age...but it _is just research_. Harmless.” George watched his old Captain's brow furrow as he considered this. Their eyes did not meet, but George took John's silence as indication enough that he could continue. “I get that you want to give him a normal life, John.” His voice was softer now, almost apologetic. “And I commend you for that, really I do. But his parents are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson- just how realistic a goal did you expect that to be?”

John pressed his eyes shut once more, the creases around them swelling and becoming more prominent as a result of the stress. Then his face softened slightly, the creases smoothing themselves out as John opened his eyes again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Benson cut him off. “I know, I know.” He sighed. “ _It's easy to be a parent when you aren't one._ Feel free to tell me to bugger off. But those are m'two cents – take 'em or leave 'em.”

A silence fell again, but not the companionable silence they'd held before. This time it was suffocating and uncomfortable. George swallowed thickly, fixing his full attention on the road, meandering through the throngs of traffic. John was left to his thoughts. The traffic was infuriating him. The claustrophobia of the traffic jam just made him more irritable, and he cursed London for conspiring against him like this. The city he loved so well was throwing bloody _traffic jams_ at him when all he needed was to be at St Bart's hospital _right now._ He added the city to the list of things he loved which had screwed him over today.

George made no further attempts to prolong the journey, John was not going to calm any further. He was like a gas leak, and the longer he was left the more gas would come pouring from every crack and fracture. The reality of the situation was that waiting for them at St Bart's were two naked flames and there was no preventing the inevitable explosion.

***

As the two men marched through the corridors of St Bart's, George could see Sherlock and Hamish in a lab two doors down. As they approached he could see Hamish bent over a microscope, slowly twisting at two knobs on either side and squinting as he tried to analyse what was on the slide beneath. Behind him, Sherlock was pacing through the aisle between two workstations and talking out loud, gesticulating wildly as he theorised, with Hamish seemingly adding small remarks or affirmatives as Sherlock reeled off his deductions.

John wasted no time in crashing through the door, causing both Hamish and Sherlock to look up with a start, both sets of pupils blown wide by his sudden entrance.

“John-”

“Not a word.” John cut Sherlock off sharply, his voice steady but firm. “Outside now.” Sherlock Holmes seldom listened to a soul, much less took orders from them. But something about John's steely composure, and the hard glare he was fixing Sherlock with, startled the detective into obedience. He followed John from the room without a murmur, leaving their son in the company of Private Benson, who had sat himself opposite Hamish as he eventually turned back to his microscope.

Before the door had even closed fully behind them, John launched his first attack. “What the _hell_ are you thinking, Sherlock?”

“It's just a run of the mill triple homicide, John.” Sherlock replied dismissively.

John barked a disbelieving laugh. “Are your ears working okay?”

A puzzled expression briefly flashed across Sherlock's face, his brow creasing slightly as he responded, his voice laced with both indignation and confusion. “Don't be absurd. Of course they are...”

“Oh good” John drawled, “because I was just wondering _if you could bloody hear yourself!_ ” John turned and took two steps away, running a hand through his hair before rounding on him again. “Christ, Sherlock! Don't get me wrong, I accepted _long ago_ that the words 'triple homicide' would become fairly frequent flyers in the Watson-Holmes vocabulary, but _not,_ Sherlock, when it concerns our _17 year old son._ I know how these things end. People get hurt!” John was visibly bristling now, his chest heaving with the pent up anger.

“Do you really think I'd ever knowingly put him in danger?” Sherlock's voice was small now, but not half as small as Sherlock seemed as he continued even more quietly. “You don't trust me.”

John felt the wind being knocked out of him, like the force of the words had physically propelled him backwards. He looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes properly for the first time. He'd expected Sherlock to be scathing, sarcastic, nonchalant even, but he'd not expected this. He'd not prepared for the haunting vulnerability in Sherlock's eyes or for the naked and raw honesty with which he'd presented himself now. The sincerity of it had drawn the air from his lungs, and John was drowning in it, suffocating in the aching and wounding and _scolding_ vulnerability of the man before him. John Watson had never known regret like it.

He moved a hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek, running the pad of his thumb up the ragged contours of that impossible Sherlockian face. “You know that's not true”, he said simply. He hoped it was enough, but the truth of it was that so much was going unsaid. Cuts had been made and wounds would need nursing before scars formed over them. John swallowed, drawing back and running his hands over his face in frustration. Why couldn't Sherlock just _see?_

“All I want is for him to be safe. For him to have a normal childhood, Sherlock.”

“Have either of you thought about what I want?” Both men snapped their gaze suddenly to meet Hamish stood in the doorway. Neither of them had registered his arrival, and John inwardly cursed, worrying to himself about how much of their exchange their son had played witness to. Hamish straightened slightly, drawing a short breath before continuing. “I can't have a normal childhood, Dad. I tried.” He swallowed, running one hand through his sandy curls. “Believe me I've _tried so hard._ But the truth of it is that I'm as knee deep in this as you two are. More innocent people are going to die.”

John's gaze softened a fraction, something more complex than hurt sewn within those irises. Hamish tried in vain to place it; _Heartbreak? Regret?_ John's voice came weak, and resigned, croaking with the weight of everything he couldn't fathom into words. “You're 17 years old, 'Mish. That shouldn't have to be your concern. It shouldn't be your _responsibility._ ”

“You don't get it. It _is_. Because I can help, Dad. I have the skills and the knowledge to really _help_ people. What kind of a shitty person would I be to just selfishly sit on that for the sake of living a 'normal childhood'?”

John opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, his lips forming a tight line. He was struck with the blinding realisation of the universal truth that was Hamish Oliver Watson-Holmes. His son wasn't here for the puzzle. He wasn't in it for the thrill of the chase. Sure, those elements were important to him – he enjoyed solving mysteries – after all he _was_ Sherlock's son. But he was also John's son, and John could see this with such startling clarity now. Hamish was so achingly like his Dad; he wanted nothing more than to simply _help_. He was so very _Doctor Watson_ , and it was almost wounding, because how could John ever turn him away from a desire like that; a motive so pure?

John felt Sherlock's hand slipping into his own, their fingers intertwining. Sherlock gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, small and almost intangible, but enough. John nodded, swallowing thickly as Hamish led them both back into the lab. George straightened as they entered the room, offering John a small, warm smile; _Okay?_ John reciprocated this action, offering a dubious affirmative.

“My only condition”, John said finally, shattering the somewhat uneasy silence that had fallen. “You stay out of the firing line. You solve what you can from here. The rest, your father and I will deal with. And don't you two go thinking you're out of the woods yet, either. This isn't over.” He cleared his throat a little. “What do we know?” he asked, peering over Hamish's shoulder at the screen of Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock took a seat, remaining silent and nodding slightly as a cue for his son to begin outlining the case. Hamish pulled up a series of images which filled the screen, photos of each of the victims in turn.

“Three victims in as many days. Latest of which was a Mr Harold West, investment banker, discovered this morning but has been dead for around 24 hours, making him yesterday's victim.” There was a grim urgency in Hamish's voice, the words _today's victim is still to come_ , were left implied, and John finally understood the growing restlessness of his son to solve this case. He was still fighting to save whoever was unfortunate enough to have been earmarked for butchery today.

“Cause of death?”

“Ah. Well, this is where it gets interesting.” Hamish's eyes were bright now, and he was alive with the blinding aura that always consumed Sherlock whenever he was dancing through a case like this. “They were all beaten pretty badly. The amount of bruising and broken bones would lead you to believe overkill...but the reality is the first victim was _the first victim ever_. Whoever our culprit is, they aren't adept at this.” Hamish zoomed in on the images slightly, levelling them side by side for comparison. “See, the bruising is inconsistent between victims; messy and brutal killings, but the state of damage to the bodies decreases by the time you get to the third victim. Like he's getting more practised.”

“You know it's a man?” Benson inquired from across the desk.

“It's statistically more likely”, Hamish responded simply. “Now, look.” He directed the mouse to point at the word 'sorry' carved into each of the victims backs. “ _This_ is the only consistency between the victims.”

“Okay, so...signature?” John's brow furrowed slightly, his eyebrows knitting together as he tried to make sense of the torrent of new information.

“That's what I thought at first. But then I looked closer. The letters, they're ragged, rushed even. So they were cut quickly and urgently by someone in pure desperation. This isn't a murderer's calling card – it's a genuine apology.” Hamish registered the presence of Sherlock stood next to him, he'd risen from his seat, his interest piqued by this new depth of insight from his son. “So, working pretty much on a hunch”, Hamish continued, “I took some swabs of the scarring and ran a DNA analysis. The results were finalised whilst you two were out there having a domestic.” Both Sherlock and John fixed their son with a heavy glare. Hamish cleared his throat slightly, sheepishly mumbling an apology.

“Hang on, no, wait...” John began, bewildered. “Where did you even learn to do that, 'Mish?”

Hamish rubbed a hand anxiously at the back of his neck. “Erm...internet.” He chuckled slightly to himself. “Anyway, turns out I was right.” Hamish beamed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as if to say _of course you were, it's in your genes._ “Two sets of DNA. Our victim's blood, and that of his killer. Our messenger here cut himself whilst carving out his apology.”

A look of confusion crossed John's features. “Maybe he was just careless with the knife...that doesn't tell us anything.”

Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet now, his eyes blown wide as he meandered through the possibilities reverberating around his mind palace. “But it does”, he said after a few seconds. “It tells us everything. There _was_ no knife, John.”

Hamish nodded. “Exactly. If they'd had a knife, they would have stabbed the victims to death – far easier and less draining than beating them with their bare hands. So, we're left to draw the conclusion that the carvings were made with the sharpest object they could gain access to; most likely a piece of broken plastic. Their blood was drawn from the force with which they had to grip it.” Hamish clasped his hands together and clenched his fists to demonstrate.

“So you're saying these are...” Benson began.

“Forced killings, yeah”, Hamish finished grimly. His voice was grace but quieter as he added. “The killer is a victim too. They're being forced to beat people to death. Somehow they're finding a way to leave these messages on the bodies before they're forced to drag them to a ditch somewhere.” Hamish clenched his eyes shut for a moment, his nose wrinkling slightly in disgust. He could feel John tense slightly beside him, and he knew that he too was struggling to keep the bile from rising in his throat. This case had turned out to be bigger than any of them had anticipated. Bigger, and infinitely more sick and twisted.

***

John couldn't help but feel strangely at ease with the scene before him. Sherlock, their son, and his old army friend all working feverishly at a lead to try and identify their killer...or should that be victim. Hamish was watching, slightly awestruck, over George's shoulder as he frantically typed away on Hamish's laptop. Hamish had used DRAGNET to identify a 5 mile radius of the probable location of the man they were looking for, much to Sherlock's disgust. He'd declared geographical profiling a 'primitive waste of time'. And now, Private George Benson was 'forcibly accessing' Scotland Yard's missing persons database in search of someone living in that area who'd gone missing just prior to the first murder, who was a potential candidate for the unfortunate forced killer.

“Do I even want to know where you learnt how to hack that?” John asked with a wry smile.

Benson shot back a lopsided grin. “Always wanted to be a military intelligence officer – it's something of a hobby. And it's not _hacking..._ ”, he cried indignantly, “...it's _forcibly accessing._ ”

John rolled his eyes and gave a humourous tut. “There really is nothing that fazes you is there..I mean, you're _forcibly accessing_ a London Met Police database. Not exactly your run of the mill Friday afternoon.”

Benson halted typing for a brief second, cocking his head slightly as he smirked. “You broke into the Baskerville research facility. I don't think you're in a position to throw stones here, Watson.”

Across from them, Sherlock was lounged back in a chair, his gangly legs propped up on the desk, tapping away impatiently at the keys on his phone. He huffed irritably. “Are we getting anywhere?”

Benson's fingers flew across the keys once more, before a message flashed upon on the screen indicating that he had been granted access. “We're in!” he said triumphantly, before typing in the coordinates of the search area. Sure enough, there was a missing person reported in that 5 mile radius in the last 5 days. George pulled up the file on screen, and the entirety of the Watson-Holmes family had congregated behind him. The missing person's report depicted a middle aged man, 36 years of age, with close-cut dark hair and dark stubble dappling his chin. “Martin Bridges,” Benson read aloud. “Reported missing 5 days ago after he failed to pick up his five year old daughter from Chisenhale Primary School.”

“Chisenhale?” Sherlock's eyes flickered slightly with a dawning realisation. “ _Of course._ ” Without so much as another word, Sherlock was waltzing across the room to retrieve his coat, the coattails flapping as he pulled it on with a flourish.

“Hold on. Do you mind explaining to the rest of us?”

“The most irritatingly dull thing about criminal gangs, John, is that they are so beautifully _predictable_.”

“Elaboration would be fantastic...” John commented with a sigh.

“Chisenhale Works. Lovely old abandoned warehouse for a delectably cliché hideout.”

John couldn't help but feel a warmth settle over him. For now at least, everything seemed to be as it always had. Sherlock was sarcastic and short but excitable, and John was well and truly up for being hauled across London in search of a killer. The situation cloaked him in a comforting nostalgia. What he wasn't in favour of, however, was his son accompanying them on this particular adventure. Hamish appeared to be well aware of this fact, and very commendably adhering to their earlier agreement. He remained seated, merely observing his parents as they laid out their course of action.

“John...” Sherlock urged impatiently. “We need to get going.”

“Benson. Keep him occupied.” He tilted his head slightly in his son's direction. “Stay out of trouble. That applies to the pair of you.”

Benson gave a small salute and a wide grin in acknowledgement, and before another word could be uttered, Sherlock had left the room in a flurry of coattails, with John close behind.

***

Sherlock and John had been gone approximately 20 minutes when the message came through. The message that made Hamish wish he hadn’t instructed Benson to intercept any police communications to and from Scotland Yard. The message that contained chilling details of yet another killing. He'd been too late. Too late to save them. Hamish felt so painfully suffocated by the news as it came through, so completely crushed. Nothing could halt the bile from rising in his constricting throat when the initial police report disclosed that, on this occasion, there was not one but two bodies at the scene. The images that followed provided the sickening confirmation which Hamish hardly needed. On the screen in front of him, was a young woman discarded like an old rag in a dump of nettles. The inscription of that panicked and desperate apology on her back was only half complete, as the lifeless form of its scribe – Martin Bridges – lay by her side; their bodies boasting similar purples and blacks and blues. Hamish desperately tried to oppress the panic rising within him; two people were dead and two more were in danger, because if this band of sadistic criminals had identified that messages were being left, then they would be preparing for whoever it is who was following them. Without a word, and ignoring Benson's protests, Hamish pulled on his jacket, stuffing his phone into his pocket, and all but ran from the room.

“Oi, lad!” The Irish tones persisted from behind him, but he ignored them. “You're supposed to be staying out of this! You promised!” He marched on, increasing his pace as he approached the stairwell. If he was old enough to join the British army and defend his country, he was sure as hell old enough to fight for and protect his own parents and _nobody_ , Private or otherwise, was going to halt him in his mission. Hamish could hear the distinct thud of George's prosthetic as he broke into a run behind him, trying in vain to catch up.

The chances that George Benson could outrun a perfectly fit and healthy teenage boy were slim from the off, but doing it with a prosthetic leg was nigh on impossible. And yet he soldiered onwards, following Hamish down the two flights of stairs. His lungs were burning and his good leg was screaming at him to stop, each cell protesting in earnest. As he exited the building heaving a huge breath, he cursed as he saw Hamish mounting a police motorcycle _which was most definitely not his and most certainly very illegal_ , before pulling on a helmet.

“Do you even know how to ride that thing?” Benson roared after him.

Hamish's skin was quivering under the spread of goosebumps which were making an assault up his arms and legs, but he tensed himself and slammed his foot down onto the pedal. Sweat began beading on the back of his neck, and his heart was strumming a rhythm in a tempo he'd never previously experienced as the engine splutterd into life beneath him. “I expect so”, he said under his breath through gritted teeth, before tearing away from the curb.“It's just that sort of day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamish, you are in SO MUCH trouble young man. A few notes here:
> 
> 1\. If you get the reference at the end of this chapter, then 10 life points to you my fine friends.  
> 2\. DRAGNET is geographical profiling software. It works on the assumption that marauders (that's criminals which offend around where they live rather than commuting) can be located at the centre of a circle, the circumference of which is determined by their two furthermost crimes.  
> 3\. Chisenhale Works is a derelict factory located around 14 minutes from Bart's. It opened its doors in 1943 at the height of the Second World War and produced parts for both the Spitfire and Mosquito aircraft. It eventually closed in 1972 and has been pretty much left to gather dust since.
> 
> Sorry again for how long this chapter has taken to get to you, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless!


	9. Chapter 9

John was silent. He simply had no more words left to express how sickeningly and dizzyingly angry he was. In front of him was the very person he'd banished from this excursion, panting and breathless and eyes wide with a mixture of panic and adrenaline. It was Sherlock who spoke first, his voice thin and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

 “You were told to stay put, Hamish.”

 “You were in danger!”, their son protested, heaving another breath as his lungs clambered for Oxygen. True enough, Hamish had saved them from immediate danger by expertly clouting the sniper, who was now out cold at their feet, around the head with the splintered remains of an old support beam from the factory's roof. And, in all fairness, the sniper _had_ been trained on them and poised to shoot, and only their son's somewhat clumsy handling of the chunk of wood and miraculously impeccable timing had stopped either one, or both, of them from having a bullet lodged in their brain.

 Grateful, however, was definitely not the first adjective which could be applied to either Sherlock's or John's current state. _Fuming. Angry. Seething. Distressed. Disappointed. Sickened. Broken-hearted._ All words readily applied to John as the day had run it's course. As he looked over at Sherlock, and noted the way the muscles in his shoulders were drawn tight, and his arms were stiff, his face solid and unyielding, he thought that Sherlock at least had the common decency and courtesy to be angry _now._ Hamish's body posed a polar opposite. His face was slack, his muscles loose as his arms seemed weighted and hanging, pulling his whole form into a shrivelled kind of slump. He was looking at his feet now, silent, scuffing his foot at something on the floor. His head was hanging, his chin seemingly pulled down to rest on his chest by the gravity of his situation. He swallowed, as if trying to dispel the bitter taste of his own thoughtless and idiotic recklessness.

 John found himself almost wounded by it.

 It was as if his son was only ashamed of his own actions, _aware_ _of them_ even, when Sherlock expressed his anger. He tried to banish the thought, but he couldn't help being plagued by the minuscule devil of possibility that, previously, Hamish had considered his anger a price worth paying for Sherlock's pride...

  _Give the kid some credit,_ he chastised himself. _He's not cold. It probably didn't even occur to him that it seemed that way._ John wasn't sure which possibility he liked least. He shared a glance with Sherlock, and they both nodded an agreement. Priority: getting their son out of there, out of danger.

 The factory was crumbling and structurally unsound, and that was the most positive of all John's assessments. The brickwork was decaying and worn, and the resulting dust which swamped the air was illuminated by the streams of fractured light which crept through the maze of broken windows. The light was poor, however. The scale of the building and the position of the windows towards the top of its colossal walls, left a lot to be desired in terms of visibility. Some rooms, he'd discovered, were empty and deserted, the soft and now early-evening light barely penetrating their walls. Others were crowded with long since redundant pieces of machinery from the building's noble wartime effort. They remained dormant, locked in their own period, and cloaked John in a prickly unease as he'd made his initial sweep of them. He felt like an intruder; like a sharpened needle piercing the bubble of lost time the rooms were cocooned in. He knew, however, that it would be in one such room, with their labyrinths of rusty and sleeping metal workers, and their cloaking shadows, that they would find who they were looking for. The person whom, thanks to their son's timely but _certainly-won’t-go-unpunished_ appearance, they knew was now aware of the Holmes-Watson storm descending upon them.

 All the more reason, John thought, to get their son out of there as soon as humanly possible. John had no doubt that, having been left behind with so little explanation and cruelly (and possibly slightly woundingly to his manhood) outrun, Benson would show up at their location in the not too distant future. Hopefully, John found himself praying, flanked by some armed officers and possibly a disgruntled and slightly ruffled Lestrade.

  _I owe him a right hook too,_ John thought. He liked Greg, and thought he trusted him too, but Greg wasn't so dense as to not realise how _very not okay_ it had been for Hamish to be in attendance at his crime scenes. John found himself wondering if Greg had even attempted to fight John's corner, to reason with Sherlock at all. He suspected not. After all, Detective Inspector Lestrade was a desperate man a lot of the time, and god help him he needed Sherlock, and John thought there probably wasn't much he wouldn’t do to keep the Consulting Detective happy to keep him solving his cases. Currently, however, that was the least of his worries. Hamish needed to be escorted from the crumbling wreck of a factory. He was silently compliant, barely even chancing a glance at either of his parents as they decided between them that it would be more efficient for John to be the one to take him, and for Sherlock to wrap up the case himself with the promise of reinforcements close behind.

 As they moved off in opposite directions, John indicated for his son to walk ahead of him. “I need you where I can see you”, he clarified, adjusting his grip on the gun in his hand, and levelling out the angle of its barrel. “Stay alert. I'll cover you.” The silence which followed hung heavy and unpleasant, tainting the air with a bitterness which crackled and stung like static electricity between them. It almost paralysed John; afraid to move or speak or _breathe_ for fear of creating a spark which ignited them. He'd all but waded through the bogs of anger and boiling rage, and now he found himself consumed by a fog of raw and unrelenting _disappointment_ and he couldn't bear it. Hamish couldn't either. Anger, he knew how to deal with – letting his Dad cool off before apologising and ensuring him that he loved him – he could cope with that. Parents were supposed to get angry and frustrated and infuriated with their kids, much like it was almost in the job description of the children to rebel and try their patience over and over again. But disappointment was a whole other ball game. Disappointment was wrought with complexities; it was thorny and difficult to navigate, and Hamish felt so utterly helpless being confronted with it. Anger was easy to reverse because it had a simple and polar opposite. To expel anger Hamish could simply install a state of calm, reinstate happiness and provide a reminder of just how much love he had to give his Dad, but what was the opposite of disappointment? Disappointment had a firm and icy grip, seizing and debilitating, and the object of its focus had no control or possession of a remedy.

 John sighed. “This wasn't big or clever, Hamish. Do you realise how seriously you could have been hurt?” His voice was a mixture of aching concern and heartbreaking resignation. “It's bad enough your Father being a reckless idiot, without you blindly following him...”

 Hamish choked a nervous laugh. “Dad, seriously, you want to do this _now?”_ John's brow creased, his eyebrows forming the perfect model of discontent as he opened his mouth to speak. Hamish cut him off. “Forget it. Fine I was reckless. But it's not just about that is it? You don't get it. I can do this. I'm _good_ at this, Dad.” His voice was shaking, cracking slightly as he continued. “I can't -” he faltered and gave a sigh, shaking his head in surrender to the things in his heart that his head couldn't fathom into words.

 “Hamish?” John abruptly stopped walking, pulling lightly on his son's shoulder so he turned to face him. He was searching his face, hopelessly and fruitlessly trying to read him. Read something. Read _anything._ Why was Hamish such an enigma to him? His own _son._ Hamish had said it himself. The accusation had been flung and it was making a beeline straight for John's rapidly sinking heart. How were they so out of tune? When did they start traversing different roads and end up so _so_ lost?

Hamish turned away and, after a brief pause to collect himself, continued. “I can't make y-”.

 The rest of his sentence was consumed by a strangled cry. When a gunshot rang out, both Hamish and John hit the floor, John instinctively. When he looked across to his son, to see he'd hit the deck too, he sighed, the relief swarming him as he inhaled a deep and steadying breath in an effort to regain some order over his startled heart. He was out of practise.

 And then it caught up with him, at the same time that the shock wore off and it registered with Hamish too. His son was clutching at his chest, gasping and desperately scrambling for air, the warmth of his own blood spreading across his hand and chest. John didn't think then. He didn't recall how he'd got to his son's side, but he was there now, clutching him desperately as Hamish tried to mouth the word 'sorry' as he violently choked, the crimson of his own blood staining his lips and face as it forced its way from his mouth.

 “Shh. Shh”, John cooed, hushing him. “We're gonna be okay.” He kissed his son's head before straightening. Hamish was whining now, the tears free-flowing, as the pain ripped through him on every breath. “Hamish. Look at me. Look. We're going to be okay.” And John wasn't thinking again. His hands were working and he wasn't thinking. He was just looking. Holding his son's petrified gaze and whispering soothing words as his hands took over, working with such haunting familiarity as they had so many times before; the life or death of a gunshot wound and the threat of a punctured lung waiting for them like an old friend.

 As a crossfire erupted above his head, bullets sweeping their graceful trajectory in search of their targets, John realised that reinforcements from Scotland Yard must have arrived. He couldn't determine from the exchange of ammunition how many there were, and he found that he didn't care. His focus was locked and there was nothing in it but himself and Hamish. The roar of gunfire barely even penetrated the muffling bubble that seemed to be constricting around him. As his hands carried out the almost habitual ritual he'd performed so many times on fallen comrades, he thought of all the times he'd managed to save his friends from similar wounds...and then he drowned in the times that he _hadn't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

John had not said a word. Not even to Sherlock; he didn't even meet his eyes. Even as they sat in the back of an ambulance, their son unresponsive between them, John said nothing. Even as they waited in the bland and hauntingly empty corridors of the hospital, with their clinically white walls. As surgeons battled to save Hamish, battled to prevent his lung collapsing and to stem the flow of blood from his chest. John said nothing.

When the surgeon emerged several excruciating hours later, still not a word had been uttered. John barely heard what he was saying to them. He was completely numb, still trapped in the muted bubble which had enveloped him as he'd begun his work on Hamish at the factory. The doctor's words washed over him as his heart finally beat a steady but deafening rhythm. _Bullet removed._ Beat. _Lung damage._ Beat. _Long recovery._ Beat. _He's lost a lot of blood._ Beat. _Fluids._ Beat. _Breathing apparatus._ Beat. _Medica_ _lly induced coma._

The bubble shattered. John's eyes snapped up to the surgeon, who was offering his sincerest apologies, and endless promises about how they were doing everything they could. His heart had seized in his chest, his throat constricting and the thickness of the air almost suffocating. Then came the words _stable condition_ and his heart stuttered once more before kicking back into its rhythm. John looked back to his hands, still stained with the reddish brown of his son's blood. He'd not made a move to wash them. He'd not even thought to.

Still he did not say a word.

They followed as Hamish was wheeled from theatre, to a private ward. John assumed it was Mycroft's doing. Mycroft would have known, John didn't know, or even care, how he knew, he was just grateful that he did. There was a small basin in the corner of the room and John silently approached it as nurses worked on connecting Hamish up to drips and machines. He violently scrubbed at his hands, closing his eyes to save himself from the sight of the water running red with the blood which had caked his hands. Hamish's blood. _His son's blood._ The blood that had seeped from the wound in Hamish's chest right under John's fingertips as the life and colour had drained from his face. The same blood which now stained the floor of that god-forsaken factory and had spread like a virus across the dusty tiles as Hamish had choked and spluttered.

Still not a word was uttered. The nurses had vacated the room now, it was just John and Sherlock. The silence was deafening. John wanted to scream and shout, colour the walls of this damned hospital with his curses and cries. He wanted to wail his lament so every single person could feel every ounce of his pain. He dried his hands, biting down on his top lip with excessive force to keep himself from making a sound. As he turned, he found himself in Sherlock's arms as he pulled John into a vice like embrace. Still not a word came from either of them as Sherlock held him, as John allowed the gravity of their situation to manifest itself into choked sobs. They stood that way for a time which neither of them cared to quantify. They stayed locked and pressed together like the only security the world could offer them was each other.

John smacked one hand against Sherlock's shoulder suddenly, and let out a noise somewhere between a cry and a growl. He pushed back, twisting violently from Sherlock's arms and raising his hands to grip forcefully at his hair. He turned his back and moved to the other side of the room at a speed which seemed to illustrate that he was being physically repelled from Sherlock. Sherlock could hear his deep and heavy breaths intermingled with almost silent wails of despair.

“I should have done something more.” His voice was just a whisper. “I'm a bloody Doctor, I should have done something! An army Doctor at that...” He began to pace, grunting in frustration and running his hands over his face once more. He shook his head, almost in disbelief. “Stupid!”, he spat, “I've treated so many bloody gunshot wounds but when it really mattered, when it really _really_ mattered, I couldn't do it. Useless. You're bloody useless John Watson.” Tears were readily cascading down his face now as he openly chastised and verbally beat himself. He turned his face away fully, unwilling to allow Sherlock to witness him crumble. “I should have done something”, he uttered again.

Sherlock swallowed. “John...” He bit his lip. He didn't know what to follow that with. He'd hoped the gentle caress his voice gave John's name may serve to soothe him slightly, and that the rest would come flowing from him like an untapped oil well. But the truth of it was that Sherlock was so hopelessly lost and out of his depth. What was one supposed to say to their partner when between them in a hospital bed lay their only son in a medically induced coma?

He settled for “It wasn't your fault.” Because that's the sort of thing people said, wasn't it? That was the sort of thing people like John needed to hear. It had the added benefit of being the truth; John really wasn't to blame. He may have believed he should have done something more, but in reality there was nothing more he _could_ have done given the situation. There was no avoiding the post mortem of events though, was there? Nobody ever, in the history of catastrophic events and tragedy, had ever come away feeling like they did all they could. There would always be doubts of _what if_ and _if I had just..._ When the resultant casualty of the tragedy was your own flesh and blood, could you ever not punish yourself for not being able to protect them?

John spun around on the spot, his face suddenly contorted by an expression that Sherlock could not place; disgust? Rage?

“No, you're right. It _wasn't_ my fault, Sherlock. It was yours.” The tears had ceased, but John's voice was trembling; shaking and quivering under the weight of the accusation it had just made. John knew he should stop, step back from the brink before he said something that pushed them both over, falling into a dark abyss of hastily flung insults and scolding words which they couldn't take back. The words, however, kept coming, burning like acid in John's mouth.

“This whole mess is your fault, Sherlock! You better pray -” He faltered, feeling the bile thicken in his throat. “You better _pray,_ to every damn deity you can think of, that he makes it. Because I will _never_ forgive you for this.” The choked sobs, which had been threatening yet another attack, returned with a vengeance. John felt the weight of it crush his lungs and twist and stab at his sickened stomach. Sherlock's heavy focus faltered as he looked away.

“I take full responsibility”, he mumbled simply. Sherlock had said this on occasion before; deadpan and sarcastic, but never with the words so achingly laden with self-loathing. John was struck with the full force of the magnitude of his mistake. Sherlock was truly blaming himself, wholly and fully, holding himself accountable for the near fatal condition their son was in. Why did John feel guilty? He had a right to be angry. He'd been betrayed and lied to, the man he loved and his own _son_ had conspired against him. He'd warned of this. He always _knew_ that someone would end up hurt, that's why he insisted countless times that Hamish was not allowed to follow them into the fire. That was why he _point blank refused_ to drag their son into such a dangerous and messy lifestyle.

 _Goddammit John,_ he screamed at himself internally. _You are allowed to be angry. You have a_ right _to be angry. Don't let him make you feel guilty._

And John tried, he fought against the guilt, he focussed on the anger and the betrayal. The pure and simple _utter heartbreak_. But then he saw the look on Sherlock's face again, and his fortress of rage and his flaring white-hot consciousness crumbled. He looked over to his son, wired up to machine after machine, the soft beeping indicating life, but his form still lifeless and crippled. Hamish was stable, and yet John could still feel him slipping away. He was still consumed by an unwavering sense of loss. And now, he was pushing Sherlock away too. He was overwhelmed by the urge to run to him, to take back each and every scathing word. He needed to cling to him, massage every thoughtless wound and remind himself that there was a man beneath that broken exterior that loved him. He needed to latch onto something tangible, seeking comfort where it had always been.

“Sherlock...” John made to move forward, but stopped when Sherlock gave a minute and almost undetectable shake of his head. “Look at me please”, he begged.

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the floor. He couldn't look. He couldn't meet John's eyes for fear of what of what he might see there; he couldn't bear to face it. Now he was sure, so certain he'd made the wrong choice. He'd never doubted himself before, other than that one time at Baskerville. He wasn't used to doubting himself, being wrong. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that somewhere, buried so very deep in the back of his mind that he ignored it, he knew that this had been the wrong path to go down. The only person who could ever confirm or deny that assertion was John. It had only ever been John. And now John had confirmed Sherlock's worst nightmares, because he couldn't look John in the eyes, and that was enough to confirm how far he had strayed, how much he'd abused John's trust. He couldn't bear to see the disappointment on John's face, he couldn't bear to see that final proof that he'd made a wrong turn somewhere along the line. Now he was so hopelessly lost.There was a time when those brilliant blue eyes were a lighting beacon, but now they wouldn't be bright. They'd be dark and sorrowful, but the blame and disappointment in them would be blinding. The _guilt_ would be blinding. He was so ashamed of himself; ashamed of how spectacularly _stupid_ he'd been. Not only to have risked losing his son, but to risk losing John too. He was scared, because maybe he'd not just risked losing them, maybe he'd already lost them.

Sherlock moved to stand by the bed, looking down at their son where he lay connected by a web of wires to every machine imaginable; keeping him breathing, monitoring his heart, pumping him with fluids and medication to keep him sleeping. The recovery would be long and slow. Hamish looked so broken, and Sherlock thought he may as well have shot Hamish himself – his blood would still be on his hands.

John watched, frozen in his spot at the other side of the room, as one solitary tear formed in the corner of each of Sherlock's eyes. As they tumbled down his cheeks, magnifying each and every pore of that pale white skin, it twisted John's gut inside him. He'd never felt so violently and heartbreakingly ill. Paralysed by this turmoil, he observed helplessly as Sherlock took one of Hamish's hands between his own and whispered, “I'm sorry. I let you down.” Before John could register that, though the words had been whispered to Hamish, they were directed at him too, Sherlock had turned on his heel and left the room.

John was left, staring blankly into the void he'd left, the empty Sherlock-sized space in the room. He swallowed, his throat tightening, before moving to take a seat at Hamish's beside. He mirrored Sherlock's action by taking hold of Hamish's right hand, and ran the pad of his thumb absently over his son's palm in a soothing motion. Quite whether he was trying to sooth himself or his son, he didn't care to dwell on. He looked back up, into the empty space where Sherlock had been stood, and whispered solemnly “I love you”, before burying his head into the hospital bed clothes and permitting a fresh, but silent, cascade of tears.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally lets himself get mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to be longer, but I didn't want to keep you (or my nagging friend who hates me for the heartbreak I've put her through with this fic) waiting, so I decided to divide it into two. It was in two parts anyway so the second will come in a day or two. 
> 
> Quick thanks to everyone reading thus far, I've never thanked you before and I should have. So, ta very much. :)

John woke to the unnerving feeling of someone else's presence, a feeling soon justified as he looked up slowly from where his head was resting by his son's hand on the side of the hospital bed, to see Mycroft stood across from him. He was staring intently at the digital display of Hamish's vital signs, leaning casually on his umbrella with his left foot crossed loosely over his right. John blinked a few times, trying to clear the sleep from his vision, before sitting up straight in his chair and self-consciously brushing himself down. He glanced briefly to the clock on the wall; he'd slept for just over 90 minutes, and if he was honest he felt worse for it. The clock on the wall seemed to be struggling as he was, laboriously forcing its hands on their circuit of numbers, each tick echoing guilt at not being able to move faster and bring John closer to a time where his son would be with him again. 

“He's doing better,” Mycroft remarked, without so much as tearing his gaze away from the figures and oscillating lines on the screen. His tone was bland and almost nonchalant, and John visibly bristled in response. Sometimes Mycroft's talent for maintaining his composure was insulting and John found himself mentally damning Mycroft to hell for his lack of heart regarding his own nephew. Did the man not posses a morsel of compassion, or a single ounce of sympathy?

“You knew”, John muttered through gritted teeth. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. His fists clenched around the handfuls of Hamish's bedsheets and it took a considerable amount of effort and every last fraction of John's restraint not to rise to the tight line of Mycroft's grimace. Meeting Mycroft Holmes with rage was about as effective as a chocolate teapot, and John had long since learned that presenting himself as cool, unwavering and even passive intimidated Mycroft more than threats and physical action. 

“Indeed.” John's fists closed tighter into the hospital bedclothes. 

“You didn't tell me.” 

“Correct.” Mycroft swung his closed umbrella up so it was pointing forwards, perfectly parallel with the floor, and fixed his grey eyes on examining the metal tip. John stood then, releasing his curled fingers from the prison of his clenched fists and flexing them slightly. John thought he'd run out of energy to be angry, and admittedly acting on ferocious impulse went against every single rule he'd ever written himself when dealing with Mycroft, but _balls to the usual strategy._ He'd not unleased his full fury on one Holmes brother, he certainly wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to release the thunderstorm named John Watson on the other. 

“We're supposed to be singing from the same hymn sheet, Mycroft.” John pressed his lips together as he rounded the end of Hamish's bed, closing the gap between himself and the other man. Being shorter than him didn't mean he couldn't crowd him, rise to his full height in a defensive manner. “We had an agreement,” he continued, his voice remaining level and steady but unmistakably laced with a _bite_ that Mycroft could never quite place in the ex-soldier. John scoffed. “Or so I thought. I look out for your brother, and you help me out when I need it. That's pretty much been the status quo from _day one._ ” 

John could feel the heat building behind his eyes, reds and oranges and flashes of white as the spark of animalistic rage swelled into a blaze of a more startling intensity. Every nerve in his body pulled tighter and tighter, screaming and wailing and begging for a release, waiting for something to sever the stretched threads and release the restrictive tension. 

“My brother was doing nothing to cause alarm.”

Something snapped, and the speed with which the halves of the strands snapped back, pulling away from each other in the cluttered noise of John's head, was enough to give him whiplash. He barked a sickened laugh.

“Do you know what, Mycroft? I actually just _pity_ you”, he spat, his face shrivelling and contorting in disgust.

“I fail to see-”

“Shut up and _listen”,_ John demanded, cutting him off. Mycroft seemed partially stunned into obedience as he clamped his lips together. John's sudden outburst had evidently startled the older Holmes. He had always displayed such a ferocious and yet stubbornly collected defiance in the face of anything Mycroft threw his way. Mycroft had come to expect it, rejoining and meeting it with his own steely composure. It was something of a non-conservative yet strangely comfortable arrangement between them, unspoken, but there nonetheless. It suited them both. There was a level of familiarity with the ever present underlying tones of friction. Both parties had come to expect the silent give and take, and honoured it for Sherlock's sake. 

“I _pity_ you”, John repeated. “Because what kind of _hell_ of a childhood must you have had for you not to deem a single fraction of Sherlock's recent behaviour unacceptable? What kind of twisted messages and sloppy parenting did you receive for the presence of a 17 year old boy at a _murder investigation_ to be a-okay with you, for it not to set bloody alarm bells ringing in your head?” 

“My priority is my brother, and my brother was well. I had no business interfering with matters”, Mycroft responded in clipped tones. 

Before John could even think about what he was doing, his body was acting without him; his fist collided heavily and squarely with jaw of the British government. _And fuck the consequences because it felt good._ Mycroft grunted and staggered back slightly, releasing his grip on the handle of his umbrella and letting it fall to the floor as he clambered for purchase on the arm of the chair behind him. He dropped down into it, grimacing as he moved a hand up to run his finger tips over where a Picasso of blue and purple would soon begin to paint itself on his cheek. He looked up, recovering from the dazed expression which briefly possessed his features, and shot John an icy glare through narrowed eyes. 

“How dare you.” Mycroft was almost snarling now, spitting his words like venom. John could not help the sense of triumph that washed over him at seeing Mycroft Holmes with his feathers so violently ruffled. He had to sharpen his focus in order to keep the flicker of amusement from announcing itself in a small smirk on his face. “Do you realise-” 

“Spare me your bloody power complex induced bullshit and listen to me _very carefully_. Hamish is your nephew, he is your _flesh and blood_ and you have a duty of care over him. He was in danger, and him and Sherlock were both being reckless, and you should have _told me._ But you didn't, because you think you're so high and mighty.” John was towering over Mycroft where he sat in the chair now, refusing to back up and only closing in further around his brother-in-law. “I'm not one of your little government pets to be ordered around. We're family and, like it or not, we're equals. You have a responsibility to come to me when Sherlock is being reckless, regardless of your own desires, because I _will not_ have my family suffer because of your ego.” John paused and then straightened, before Mycroft rose from his seat and drew a sharp breath to compose himself. John was suddenly acutely aware of the volume he'd reached during his rant as he noticed that the nurses across the hall had averted their attentions to the source of the commotion. 

He took a step back, allowing Mycroft to bend and retrieve him umbrella before continuing. “Still, I should have expected nothing less from the man who essentially sold his little brother out to a criminal mastermind. Seems you have something of a track record when it comes to screwing over family.” 

“I came here out of _concern for my family.”_ Mycroft retorted, his whole face and body drawn tight and throbbing with tension which John was so seldom witness to in either Holmes. John was balancing on a fine line between amusement and unease at this unusual tension in Mycroft's posture. Still, John did not delude himself into considering Mycroft's unease the result of pure and simple sentiment; Mycroft was simply uncomfortable with not being wholly in control of a situation. It threw him. 

“Too little, too late.” John's voice was low but harsh. “Now get out. You have no business with me or my son.” 

Without another word, or even so much as a scornful glance, Mycroft brushed his hands over his immaculate three piece and turned on his heel. As he opened the door John added critically, “And maybe _now_ is an appropriate time to show concern for your brother.” No response came, but John knew that he'd understood, and with that he collapsed back into his former chair, running his now sweaty palms over his face, his weary eyes stinging with lost sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought John deserved the company of someone he still likes.
> 
> Apologies for the delay on this one. I've had some personal stuff to sift through and this week has been quite emotionally draining, I've had neither the energy nor motivation to write. Do forgive me. :)

John did not sleep again.

He sat awake in the worn chair, picking absently at the faded and torn covering. His body wanted him to sleep, urged him to succumb to the clinical lullaby of gentle beeping and surrender to unconsciousness. He didn't want to. He plainly refused to slip into slumber.

His mind wouldn't let him, even if he had wanted to. His whole conscious mind was drowning, buried and crushed under the weight of the rubble of his life. The last 8 hours had left him exhausted, drained and hopeless. He was utterly lost, flagging and wandering completely disoriented through his mind. He was pitifully wading through the storm of betrayal and heartbreak, of regret and loathing. His mind was a kaleidoscope; washes of dark blues of despair and pools of desperate purples, contrasted with angry red and oranges and blindingly bright white. And then there was black; a small but achingly all-consuming shadow, hidden away but frighteningly prominent. It was pulling John to wallow in a pit of sorrow, to close everyone and everything out and let it take him. He was tempted by it, considered that it may offer him some peace. The only thing left anchoring him in the _now_ was the slow but steady sequence of beeps of his son's heart rate beside him. Hamish was still fighting, and John wasn't about to let him fight alone.

They'd be okay. With or without Sherlock.

The last thing he wanted was visitors. Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft – they could all go to hell. John wanted to remain in his room; him and his son cocooned in an impenetrable bubble.

He was ready to shoot the nurse, who tentatively peeked around the door, down in flames. He was poised to chase her from the room with a torrent of profanities. However, he wasn't entirely sure he had it in him to be so brutal towards her. She was, after all, part of the team fighting to keep Hamish alive. And so, despite the venom towards the entire populous coursing through his veins, John kept his lips firmly and tightly sealed together. She was young, fresh-faced, her bright blue eyes only having recently finished absorbing information for exams. She was meek and polite, and John certainly didn't have the heart to use his catastrophic day as an excuse to ruin hers. She was only doing her job.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Doctor Watson," she began shakily as she tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her right ear. "I know you said no visitors, but this man is quite adamant."

John sighed, he was neither prepared nor in the mood to face Sherlock. He took a breath and closed his eyes briefly to calm himself.

“Look, just tell Sherlock t-”

“Oh, not Mr Holmes.” She cut him off before giving a small apologetic smile for interrupting him. She was so polite that it was almost absurd, John thought he liked her some. She could come again. “George Benson wishes to see you”, she added.

Suddenly John yearned for his company; needed it like air. He rejected the solitude, he didn't want to be alone anymore. _The one person,_ he thought. _The one person I have left._ He was craving the calm serenity and comfort, the man who radiated loyalty and compassion and something beyond _all this._ George was good. He was stability. He was something to cling to. John gave a slight nod and the nurse briefly disappeared back out into the corridor. She emerged a few seconds later, pushing Benson in a wheelchair.

_Shit._

John cast a glance to the empty space in the left side of the wheelchair, to the now asymmetrical appearance of Benson's lower half, to where his prosthetic had once been.

_Double shit._

John rose to meet him as the nurse excused herself. “Shit Benson. What happened?” he asked, his face stricken as he approached.

“Relax”, he said, holding up a hand and offering a reassuring smile. “It's nothing but collateral damage. It's not like I haven't lost this leg before, eh?”

That was so painfully true that John almost couldn't stand for the weight of it on his shoulders. He'd left Benson behind once before, and it'd ended catastrophically for him, and now he'd gone through that all again. Another heavy sigh escaped John's lips as he ran his hands over his face. “I-”

“Stop blaming yourself”, George said firmly. “It wasn't your fault then, and it isn't now.” He hauled himself into a standing position using the crutch that had been left for him, and hobbled slightly clumsily to Hamish's beside. “None of this is your fault.”

John would never be fully convinced of how far that was true. Old habits died hard, and it had always been a characteristic of his to hold himself accountable for the suffering of those around him. He'd always felt it was his own responsibility to help everyone. It was part of the reason he became a doctor; an attempt to ease that burden by feeling like he was at least giving something back. It backfired of course, served only to amplify this care-taking part of his personality. He couldn't shake it at the best of times, with complete strangers, but to be relieved of that weight now that it was his son unconscious in a hospital bed before him was an impossibility.

“What's the latest?” John really hadn't spared a single though for the case in the last 8 hours, and who could blame him, but since his friend was stood before him with a leg missing he felt he should at least ask. George looked up to meet John's gaze, his eyes were laden with the same victorious spark that John had seen so many times in Afghanistan. However, the light blue was underpinned by a battle-worn grey.

“We got the bastards” was all he said. It was enough. Knowing it wasn't all in vain didn't make it worth it – nothing ever would – but it did take some of the sting out, even if just for a moment. Nobody else would suffer at the hands of that sadistic gang of criminals now, and that couldn't be anything but good. No more families would traverse the merciless road of grief and loss. Of course John was suffering now, _his_ family was whimpering and howling like a wounded animal, and he couldn't even hate himself for wishing their places were reversed. John choked out something close to gratitude; he wasn't sure he'd managed to formulate any coherent words but he knew that Benson would have understood regardless. This assertion was confirmed as he struggled slightly towards him, leaning heavily on his crutch, and pulled John into a hug. It was awkwardly lopsided since Benson had to keep one arm supporting himself on his crutch, but John appreciated the comfort it gave him. It was the embrace of two comrades; a silent _it's going to be okay. We've got this._ It was friendship and warm familiarity. It was the kind of embrace that could only be shared by two men who would fight and die together: it was the relief that the worst was over, but an unspoken _I've got your back_ for the rest of the mountains they had yet to scale.

John pulled back, his face displaying a concerned frown. “You should rest that”, he said, nodding towards Benson's leg.

“You should rest, full stop,” Benson retorted. “You look like crap.”

John allowed himself a rueful laugh before muttering a disgruntled “Thanks” and collapsing back into his chair. Across from him, George had lowered himself back into the wheelchair and manoeuvred it closer to the hospital bed.

“I'm serious,” he continued, his voice grave. “You need to go home. Get washed, change into to fresh clothes. Get a decent meal down you and _get some decent bloody sleep in a proper bed._ ”

“I'm not leaving him.” The words came quiet and low, but firm.

“I'll stay with him for you, I've just been discharged so I can stay up here. I won't leave his side. I promise you.” Benson's eyes were begging and sorrowful. John looked withered and exhausted, and George couldn't help but see the suffering in him – that harrowed shadow that had been left behind by the hurricane of the last few hours. He was trying to hard to be firm, to command John to leave and rest, but really he was begging, pleading. _You need to take care of yourself, John,_ he pleaded internally. _You will not do your son any favours to run yourself into the ground before he wakes._ John was a doctor, and George knew that he was aware that Hamish would not wake or be brought to consciousness by the medical team any time soon. There was no risk of him missing Hamish's return to the waking world. John knew that George knew this, and yet he still contested the demand that he return to Baker Street for even a few hours.

“Please, John. He needs you strong and well rested. Go. Home.”

Reluctantly, John nodded and complied. In that moment it was like every cell of his body reawakened, returning to their begging for their basic needs. He was overwhelmed by them; his body crying out for the bare necessities. Hunger and fatigue suddenly began a ruthless onslaught, and so John returned to 221B, returned home.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter turned into a long one.

John could hardly feel his legs beneath him as he laboured up the stairs to the flat. He'd stooped slightly to sweep up the pile of post that had gathered just inside the door, and he didn't even bother to straighten fully before continuing up the stairs and pushing through the door of 221B. He shucked off his coat and threw it over the sofa before casting a tired but evaluative gaze across the flat. Nothing had moved, everything in the flat was just as he and Benson had left it several hours previous – right down to the mug which had been left on the floor by the vacated armchair.

John didn't know what he'd expected to find, or who. He wasn't even sure if he'd wanted Sherlock to be there but he couldn't help the slight twist of his gut upon finding the flat empty. The worry had started to nag, tapping ever so slightly at the back of his mind. Sherlock had left the hospital some hours ago, distraught and sorrowful, yet he'd not returned home. _Where was he?_ Part of John was yearning to see him, to hold and to soothe him, and still, there was a part of him that knew he couldn't face Sherlock just yet. He was torn between worrying about whether he'd end up pulling Sherlock out of a gutter somewhere in some shadowy corner of the city and telling himself that he was supposed to be angry beyond reason. Because he _was_ angry. He didn't want to go running to Sherlock this time. He didn't want to be the one to give in and cave first – Sherlock needed to understand that sometimes he was in the wrong, and that John wasn't always going to come running after him to patch things up and check if he was okay. For once John wished that Sherlock would approach _him_ with an apology under his own steam, realise the gravity of his situation and the magnitude of his mistake. He wanted Sherlock to realise how much he risked losing and come to John offering a sincere apology straight from the depths of the heart that John knew he had. He wished that, just once, Sherlock would come and see if _he_ was okay. He wondered if Sherlock ever worried over the state of John's heart and mind after an argument in the way that John worried about him.

John was longing and he felt _pathetic._ He felt idiotic, because _of course_ Sherlock cared. Sherlock loved him, wholly and truly. John knew that he always had. Love and adoration was such a rare thing for anyone to achieve from a Holmes, and John could never undermine the value of the trust he'd gained that allowed Sherlock to leave himself and his heart open to him. But being with someone who didn't display his feelings as openly and honestly as anyone else did was difficult. Everyone needed to see sometimes. Sometimes just _knowing_ wasn't enough, and John just needed _showing._ He always felt a fool for needing it so desperately at times like this. Sherlock loved him and that was certain. Except, maybe at times like this it almost wasn't.

Just like that, John had gone full circle and ended up back at _guilt._

“Bloody hell, John!” He screamed into the empty room in frustration. “You're supposed to be angry.”

He was divided between the two opposing and conflicting mindsets grappling at each other and desperately seeking a foothold inside his head. He didn't know whether to let the worry take the podium or whether his simmering anger was the more worthy opponent. He elected to dismiss them both for the time being and instead resolved to occupy himself in an attempt to ignore them completely. He needed to focus on himself, even if just for a few hours, because he was hungry and exhausted and, quite frankly, he really needed a wash. He strode purposefully over to the desk, depositing the handful of letters that he'd been holding onto it, before turning and heading towards the bathroom.

The shower was soothing. He cleaned every inch of skin meticulously and rigorously, working the soap between his fingers and over his palms, scrubbing at the mere memory of the blood which had caked them. He cleaned with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a procedure. He stood for a moment, wanting to revel in the calm aura he'd surrounded himself with in the clouds of steam before he had to wash his hair. The pressure of the warm water was perfect and the thrum of it cascading from the shower head down onto his back served to massage some of the tension from his shoulders. He focussed on that, just the sensation of water beating down onto him, and filled his mind with it. He'd closed his eyes, tipping his head back to allow the water to run over his face, droplets catching in his eyelashes before falling and running a path down to caress his cheeks. He blindly reached for his shampoo and began working the small amount he'd squeezed out between his hands. Then he narrowed his attention to sensation again, the contact between the pads of his fingers and the top of his head...

_Long fingers working the shampoo into a lather against his scalp, the gentle drag of digits through his hair. The warmth of another body pressed against his back as arms snaked around his waist, holding him close and secure. The gentle and soothing nuzzle of Sherlock's nose against the crook of his neck, soon to be replaced by soft lips pressed against the pulse point there..._

John abruptly slammed the shower controls to the opposite position, letting the sudden rush of cold water bring him back to reality with a start. _That's quite enough of that,_ he thought to himself. _And you were doing so well not thinking about him. Damn._ He quickly rinsed the remaining suds of shampoo from his hair before shutting the shower off and haphazardly ruffling a towel over his hair to partially dry it. He wrapped the towel around himself, fixing it in place, and gathered up the pile of dirty clothes he'd discarded on the floor before heading into the bedroom.

He paid little attention to the fresh clothes he was putting on – he knew that they were clean, warm, and comfortable and that was all he needed. He packed a few more spare items into a duffel bag to take back to the hospital. He moved over to Sherlock's wardrobe, his hand hesitantly hovering over the handle for a few seconds before swinging the door open and retrieving some spare clothes for Sherlock too.

This definitely didn't count as thinking about him; or so John told himself.

He proceeded to pad, barefoot, through the flat and into the kitchen in search of something to satisfy the hunger which had been impatiently swelling and calling from the pit of his stomach since he’d left the hospital. His search of the fridge and so-habitual-it-was-almost-subconscious manoeuvring through the experiments, body parts and _god-only-know-what-that-is_ proved to be fruitful. It returned leftovers of Hamish's home made chilli. He opted not to bother cooking any rice to go with it, and instead thrust the container into the microwave for a few minutes before settling down at the kitchen table to eat. Mrs Hudson had insisted she teach Hamish to cook, stating that neither John nor Sherlock had culinary skills beyond those of cave man, and that if at least one occupant of 221B didn't learn to cook soon then they would all die of malnutrition. John suspected that she didn’t have the patience to teach either himself or Sherlock, and thus figured that Hamish was the only option which wouldn't significantly age her. It was times like this that he was glad they'd humoured her. He still vividly remembered the first time Hamish had cooked chilli for them all, not even a whole week from his 11 th birthday...

_To say that they both had reservations about letting their pre-teen son loose in the kitchen was an understatement. John's concern possibly dwarfed Sherlock's in the matter; Sherlock had a remarkable talent for blowing things up that had no business blowing up, and John was faced with almost certainty that Hamish would follow in his father's footsteps._

“ _I'll be watching him the whole time, boys. Hamish is a good student and an even better cook” Mrs Hudson assured them. “Now sit down and carry on as you are. We'll be in the kitchen if you need us.”John and Sherlock exchanged a dubious glance but, before they could utter a single further word of protest, Mrs Hudson had ushered their son off into the kitchen._

_The half hour or so of preparation passed without a hitch. The soft murmur of conversation between Mrs Hudson and Hamish drifted through into the living room, their polite chatter punctuated by a few offers of help from Mrs Hudson and positive reassurances from Hamish._

“ _Are you sure you don't want any help, dear?” she asked him on several occasions in the warm, mothering tone which all three members of the Watson-Holmes family held so dear._

“ _No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I think I have mastered it”, Hamish reassured her politely, with growing certainty each time._

John smiled to himself at the memory, each detail of that first chilli heightened by the one he was currently eating. He still marvelled at the knack Hamish had for combining flavours, the way he made his chilli so perfectly tuned to each of their pallets simultaneously. Sherlock so rarely ate at all, and it was unheard of for him to finish a plate of food, but he never left a single ounce of Hamish's chilli. Thinking of the way his son's proud grin spread across his face upon seeing a complete set of empty plates and his three taste testers so very satisfied with their meal, made John's heart swell in his chest. He longed to see Hamish smile like that again. He longed to have them all together, smiling like that again.

And just like that he was thinking of Sherlock again, his heart aching slightly as it offered a weak plea for Sherlock's presence. John withdrew himself from those thoughts by mentally reciting the scientific and medical terminology for every inch of the body which his food would pass on its journey through his digestive system. He followed this by recalling the nutritional value of every ingredient in the meal he'd just consumed. Occupying his mind and neutralising his thoughts was becoming a harder task to manage, and it was draining him.

He swiftly cleared away his dirty dishes and returned to the pile of post on the desk. He shuffled through the selection of envelopes, casting only cursory glances at each of them as he wandered into the hallway towards the bedroom. _Bill. Bill. Case_ _f_ _ile. Bill. Mycroft._ John gave a sad smile at the collection of birthday cards for Hamish which were located towards the bottom of the pile. Hamish would turn 18 in two days; they'd not really planned anything to celebrate, but spending his birthday in a coma was so far from how John had imagined the milestone birthday for his son. He flicked past the coloured envelopes swiftly in an attempt to quash the sickening tightening in his throat and chest.He halted his shuffling when he encountered another envelope addressed to Hamish. This one, the envelope pristine white, bared the name _Mr H Watson-Holmes_ not in the handwritten script of a friend or family member but in solid black print. He ventured up the stairs to Hamish's room to leave the cards and the letter on his bed ready for when – _when_ not _if_ – he returned home to 221B.

In his late teenage years, Hamish had converted his room to suit a more minimalist theme than its previous childhood incarnations. The walls were bare aside from the cork pin board above the head of the bed – displaying various family photos, photos of Hamish when we was young, letters and cards of particular sentimental value, and a few autographs, the most central of which was a signed polaroid of an 8 year old Hamish and his favourite formula 1 driver – and one solitary poster above his desk at the opposite side of the room. The various pin-sized holes across the room told of the different posters which the walls had seen over time; posters which were taken down and replaced as Hamish traversed different phases and adopted different interests. The presence of some was more fleeting than others. Those walls had certainly seen variety, from a borderline obsessive admiration of Buzz Aldrin when he was 9, to the various Marvel posters which had graced the light blue walls. John smiled to himself, remembering fondly the day he'd introduced Hamish to the Avengers when he'd come across some of his old comics whilst searching for something else – the identity of which had long since escaped him. Hamish had been engrossed in them, despite Sherlock's mutterings that such pursuits as comic books and superheroes were nonsensical and childish. (John had, of course, pointed out that Hamish _was_ a child and that Sherlock shouldn’t be jealous of his son's admiration of the scientific and technological ingenuity of Tony Stark. John had also told him that he shouldn't periodically interrupt the Iron Man movies by pointing out any inaccuracies, however major he saw them to be.)

The poster over Hamish's desk, however, had seen each of its companions come and go whilst not moving itself – not even once. It had been pinned in its current position since they'd bought it nearly 12 years ago. Now John thought about it, it was a strange choice for a 6 year old; the glossy image of a Lancaster Bomber. Sure, it was perfectly normal for young boys to like planes, in the same way they liked cars or motorcycles or spaceships – because they were fast and exciting and noisy. But the high resolution image of such an old and iconic aircraft was surrounded by tiny blueprint diagrams of different parts of its engineering, and John couldn't help but think that there was more to the selection of that poster than simply a naive and boyish fascination with speed. He'd never considered it before, he hadn't even realised it was still on the wall after all this time. Did he really not come into Hamish's room anymore? Not even to check on him or say 'hello' after he came in from school? Maybe he wasn't paying his son enough attention any more, maybe that's how they'd become so distant. John sighed, silently vowing to himself to not waste a single morsel of their time together, and wishing with all his heart that he could have back every second he should have spent with his son. The work really had got in the way of them as a family, and maybe it wasn't just Sherlock who had trouble making a distinction between the two after all.

Sinking down to sit on Hamish's bed, he averted his attentions back to the letter in his hand, having placed the birthday cards on the pillow. He turned the envelope over in his hand, seeking a return address on the reverse side in order to discover the letter's origin.

“ _IF UNDELIVERED PLEASE RETURN TO:_

_ADMINISTRATIONS OFFICE_

_KING'S COLLEGE LONDON_

_STRAND_

_LONDON”_

_**_

However piqued his curiosity was at the revelation of the sender of that letter, it was apparent that this was heavily outweighed by the sheer level of John's exhaustion, as the next thing that John was aware of was waking several hours later with the letter clutched to his chest. It was getting dark outside and, in the gentle slithers of light that the moon was throwing through the window, John could make out the form of someone sat at the desk.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, blinking a few times to allow his eyes to adjust to the shy beams of moonlight.

“John.” The response came back low and hoarse. Sherlock sounded worn and John imagined he looked worse – withered and drained. John sat up on the bed, making space for Sherlock in a silent plea for him to come closer. John was still angry, and he still wanted to punch the detective, but not half as much as he just needed the comfort and security that only he could offer.

“How long have I been asleep?” The question was mundane and bordering on irrelevant, but John simply didn't know where else to start. He felt refreshed, but he was still tired of this, he didn't have the strength to continue an argument.

“4 hours or so. You were asleep when I came in. I didn't want to wake you. You needed to rest.”

“And where have you been?” Sherlock rose from his seat and turned his back to head towards the window. His silhouette filled the window frame, the dark shadow almost ghost-like. He remained silent. “Sherlock” John added in a warning tone.

“Thinking” he responded simply. John heard an intake of breath and saw the shadow in the window tense. “I owe you both a thousand apologies.”

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“Because if we're having this discussion then we're having it face to face. It was not being open enough with each other that got us in this mess.” _And I need you near me._ Sherlock reached the bed in three long strides and shrugged off his coat before folding it over the end of the bed. He sat at John's feet on the far end of the bed, his body turned slightly towards him. “I'm still angry. I'm still upset. And I will be for some time. There is no quick fix for this, Sherlock. But Hamish needs us, and needs us _together._ ” _I need you._

“That was the conclusion I reached”, Sherlock replied. He had known that John would want to do whatever was best for Hamish, and he wanted the same. Sherlock had accepted, whether John wanted him around or not, that he would want them to present a front of solidarity for the sake of their son.

“Good.” A heavy silence descended; constricting and suffocating. It was like a dead weight pressing down on each of their chests, robbing them of oxygen and sending the sparks of stabbing pains into their hearts on each beat. Despite his best efforts to be open and frank with Sherlock now, John knew there was so much being left unsaid. There was a man before him who needed answers and guidance, he could see it in his posture, hear it in his voice. The same man who was a genius, a fantastic and remarkable man, was now like a lost child, desperately seeking something to cling to, desperately needing _help._ Maybe he finally understood what was at stake. He had the aura of a man who had lost everything, and John was struck with the realisation that Sherlock had spent his time _thinking,_ and when Sherlock Holmes would think he would think in a depth incomprehensible to the majority of the population. Sherlock had already accepted that he was losing everything he cared about. “You're always so certain that you're right.”

Sherlock looked up, his pupils swollen with uncertainty and his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“But this time,” John continued. “You couldn't be more wrong. You think I'm only doing this for Hamish's sake.”

“Why would I think that?”

“Because you're an idiot.” They allowed themselves a small chuckle, each remembering the first time John had said that so many years previous. John cleared his throat slightly before continuing. “This doesn't mean I forgive you. Wounds like this take a while to heal. You went behind my back, both of you, and even you aren't so emotionally inept to not realise how much that hurts. That's betrayal, Sherlock, pure and simple.” Sherlock averted his gaze, choosing to intensely examine an old acid burn on his left hand. “But I've come so close to losing Hamish today. I am not losing you too. So, if you're prepared to work through this...” he trailed off, gesticulating absently between them.

Sherlock gave a sad smile. “Now who's being an idiot.” John smiled back at him. There would be more discussions like this to follow, that was certain, but they'd wait. Their priority had to be Hamish. However, John's current priority was making sure Sherlock got some food down him first.

**

_221B was quiet, each of its occupants engaged in their own activities. Hamish sat playing at John's feet as he lounged back in his armchair perusing the Sunday paper, half hunting for possible cases but mostly just enjoying the quiet reading time which he was so seldom blessed with. Across the room at his desk, Sherlock periodically glanced down the lens of his microscope and scrawled notes by the low light of the autumn sun streaming through the window._

“ _Sherlock...” John kept his voice soft and quiet so as not to disturb the unusual tranquillity of their Sunday morning._

“ _Yes?” came Sherlock's similarly tentative response from the desk. He did not look up from his microscope._

“ _Look. It looks like we've got our own mini consulting detective.” Sherlock raised his gaze from the lens as John cocked his head slightly towards where a 5 year old Hamish was sat at his feet. Donning Sherlock's deerstalker slightly askew, which swamped his head, he was closely examining a nondescript mark on the carpet through a magnifying glass. Beside him was a notepad, which John identified as one of his own (he'd have to talk to Hamish again about asking permission before using other people's things) upon which he was scribing the few random numbers and letters he had already learnt to write in a bright blue crayon. “He's even taking notes.”_

 _Sherlock's grin was so wide that, had he not been a medical professional, John would have been quite sure_ _it could have split his face clean in half. It was a rare gem of a smile, a secret smile reserved only for the two people whom Sherlock shared his heart with wholly and unreservedly. John so adored that smile; adored what it meant, the trust it represented, the love and the companionship. It was a token of the time they'd spent together, that Sherlock could be so emotionally open and passionate around him. Sherlock had spent so much of his life being told that sentiment was nothing more than a chemical defect only displayed by the weak and feeble, but John had more than demonstrated its benefits to him. Now, Sherlock, though remaining an arrogant and heartless sod in most walks of life, saw fit to release the endless light and life of his heart within the four walls of 221B Baker Street. All in that one smile, that one intimate and blessed smile. John would never tell him so, for risk of inflating his substantial ego further, but he found a smile suited Sherlock very well. This did not, however, mean he advocated its deployment anywhere other than in the direction of himself or their son. Sherlock would not have disputed such a possessive assertion anyway._

“ _He'd make a great detective”, Sherlock said, the smooth tones of his voice glossed with the same pride which radiated from the smile on his face._

“ _He'll be great at whatever he decides to do.” John corrected._

“ _Obviously.”_

In previous years Sherlock would have scoffed at the sentimentality and nostalgia of John's reminiscence. It took the fact that, not only was he tolerating the sharing of memories as he slowly picked at the food John had prepared for him, but the fact that he was also enjoying it, for him to realise how much being with John and being a father had softened him. When he'd first met John he was all scathing remarks and prickly temperament, but he'd mellowed. He hadn't realised quite how significant the change had been, and he figured that it was so gradual that nobody else had either, but it was definitely there. He was definitely a better man. Listening to the soft and gentle timbre of John's voice as he wistfully recounted memories of Hamish's younger days was soothing, to both of them. It was of particular comfort to John to reflect on them as he continued to thumb that crisp white envelope which, as it was becoming evermore apparent, potentially contained their son's future career prospects.

 “I didn't even know he'd applied for University.” John said finally, dispelling the brief silence that had occupied the space between them.

 “It's obvious he wanted to keep it from you until he knew for certain. He wanted to surprise you.” Sherlock provided by way of explanation.

 “Did you know?” The question was simple enough, but it was underpinned by the slightest accusation. It was obvious to both parties that it translated more as _'Were you keeping this from me too?'_ Sherlock gave a small shake of his head.

 Sherlock Holmes never missed a thing. He made it his _business_ to know everything, and yet he'd not picked up on the fact that Hamish had been working away at a University application. Were they really both paying him such little attention? John couldn't fight the sinking feeling in his stomach; the guilt. What else had they missed? What kind of a terrible parent didn't know that their child was applying to University? John had always pictured himself helping his son with things like this, guiding him through the application process, accompanying him on Open Day visits to the institutions he'd chosen. John considered the possibility that perhaps Sherlock was right, and that Hamish had wanted to keep it as a surprise until he was certain he'd successfully been offered a place, but he couldn't help but feel like he'd missed out on a huge part of Hamish's life. University was a milestone, it was a big deal and John would never forgive himself for not seeing Hamish through that. No wonder he'd been stressed. John had just assumed it was nothing more than exam stress and teenage angst. He hadn't even _asked._ It seemed that Hamish's life was happening whilst he and Sherlock were busy engrossed in their work. How had it come to dominate their time to the extent that it'd impacted their relationship with their son like this...

 “Are you going to open it?” Sherlock was staring at him now. He'd laid down his cutlery and had folded his hands neatly in his lap. John blinked slightly, pulling himself back from his thoughts.

 “It's not for me.”

 “He'd want you to.” Sherlock assured him.

 John nodded, and without a further word drew his thumb along the seal to open the envelope in one swift motion. The letter inside was printed on quality paper, topped with the King's College coat of arms baring the college motto _Sancte et Sapienter – With Holiness and Wisdom._ He unfolded the last two thirds of the paper and, after a moments hesitation and a reassuring nod from Sherlock, began reading:

 “ _Dear Mr Hamish Watson-Holmes,_

 _Thank you for your application to study at King's College, London. After reviewing your application I am delighted to confirm that the University would like to offer you a place_ _on your chosen Undergraduate Degree Course, BSc(Hons) Forensic Psychology...”_

 John didn't read any further. He was certain the joy had blinded him.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adorable doodle of a young Hamish to accompany this chapter is courtesy of the lovely leagerard on tumblr.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly 3 weeks and for that I offer my deepest apologies! I've basically hated every word I've written for the past two weeks and it's been so hard to get back into the rhythm of things. I was meant to post this yesterday but it was results day and I found out that I got into Uni so I was rather preoccupied with celebrating! 
> 
> Bit of a warning that updates will probably be all over the shop for the next couple of weeks while I prep to move to Uni.
> 
> Thanks for your continued readership and for your patience. 
> 
> Much love!

“You're not asleep”, John remarked into the darkness of their bedroom.

“Neither are you”, Sherlock whispered in response.

Both men had lost track of the time they'd been laying there, staring blankly into the shadows cloaking the room. The silence wasn't consumed by suffocating tension, it was just empty. Empty and thoughtless. They'd both been lost, thinking but not really. Neither of them really had the capacity or energy to think of anything, but the weight of everything seemed to crush their chests whilst simultaneously pressing from the inside, forcing its way up their throats.

It hadn't taken a lot of convincing to get Sherlock to go to bed. It was less of a relief than John should have found it. Sherlock's soulless and silent compliance was just _wrong_. He almost wanted them to have an argument about Sherlock's apparent disregard for his own health; he wanted Sherlock to tell him how much of a waste of time sleep was, John wanted to retaliate and plead with Sherlock to at least get a few hours for the sake of his own sanity if nothing else. At least that would carry some element of normality. It'd be exhausting, but the right kind of exhausting. It'd be impossible and irritating, but anything was better than how emotionally strenuous Sherlock's current state was. John hated it. It wasn't Sherlock.

John took considerably longer to convince that a whole night in his own bed was a good idea. When he finally gave in to an insistent and stern George Benson on the other end of the phone, and had been reassured that everything was fine, he slipped silently into bed. He'd been surprised to find Sherlock there too, but then he asked himself where else he'd expected Sherlock to sleep. This was _their_ bed, after all.

It didn't feel like their bed tonight though. It felt huge, vast and empty. There was a chasm between them, a void. The space in the sheets stretched for miles between them, a canyon which seemed eternal and endless, both void of anything and teeming with everything left unsaid. The bed had never felt so huge and John had never felt so cold within it. He was so used to having Sherlock's lean form all but wrapped around him, cocooning him and holding him close and safe and warm. Now they laid parted and isolated, neither reaching to bridge the gap, but both wishing they knew how to, longing for the strength.

John wanted to keep Sherlock talking, he didn't care what they said to each other, he just needed to bathe in the soothing rumble of Sherlock's voice. The richness of it, like silk or velvet on his ear drums, would lull him into something close to relaxation. He wanted to wrap himself in the charming tones of it, let it hum gently in his ears. However, for the first time, keeping Sherlock Holmes talking seemed like a challenge of impossible magnitude. No words would come, John's tongue was barren, unable to nourish the seeds of conversation. Every godforsaken word in the entire English dictionary was inadequate; their offerings were hollow and meaningless. And so nothing but the hushed melody of their combined breaths penetrated the silence as they both stared up at the ceiling.

The dark felt so hopeless and unforgiving. John had just expelled a small, irritated sigh when he felt a slight shift on the other side of the bed. The extension of an arm into the space between them, the brush of fingertips against his own, long fingers hesitantly lacing themselves between John's as palms met. John noted the nervous hitch in Sherlock's breathing and sought to reassure him by gently squeezing his hand. Sherlock returned this gesture before gently running the pad of his thumb over the back of John's hand in a slow and soothing circular motion. John narrowed his thoughts to focus on the soft, repetitive caress, letting the comforting familiarity of the gesture ease him slowly into slumber.

***

_The wind is bitter and sharp, but it penetrates neither John's skin nor his consciousness. The air carries a metallic tang which skits over his taste buds, but otherwise he takes note of little of the environmental capsule of this place. It's new, but hauntingly familiar. He's drifting, barely tangible, barely present. Nothing really is, but nothing completely isn't. Time itself is abstracted and John lets himself be part of the abstract; it's warm and comforting. It feels safe and protective. He bathes in the secure isolation of it._

_His ears must have been scouting for clues to his surroundings, working of their own accord as he allowed himself to float, because he's suddenly drawn to the information his brain is relaying from them. Engines; humming gently in the distance. The humming increases steadily in volume, getting closer, and John is aware that his eyes are closed. For a moment, opening them seems like a mistake, like it's against the order of this place. All he can register is the blinding brightness of it, the bright white and yellow, the scorching radiance of the place becomes visually overwhelming. He flinches slightly at the heat bombarding his retinas, but this soon begins to ebb away, like the sun is issuing an apology for its forwardness, shyly receding from its place of prominence in the foreground to take up a more subdued position._

_John casts his eyes around, he's stood outside a tent which is light tan in colour. He briefly ducks his head inside, but withdraws again upon finding nothing of interest, and as he does so the engines which had pricked his senses reveal their true form. A convoy of three or four army trucks are heading straight towards him, and whilst most swiftly pass without so much as slowing, and kicking up plumes of sand in their wake, the last vehicle slows to a stop. The lean form of Private George Benson swings expertly off the back of the truck before it even grinds to its eventual halt. He flashes John his trademark grin, his broad jaw broadened further by it, as his blue eyes seem to light up. He removes his camouflaged helmet as the four other men vacate the vehicle behind him. The usual mousey brown shade of Benson's hair is tainted by the sweat that seems to be pouring off him. John pulls him into a loose embrace and claps him on the back, grinning from ear to ear as he pulls away and laughing heartily as George mutters something about John being a slacker for not having joined them for their run. He offers a scathing retort about the level of Benson's fitness judging by the fact they got a lift back to camp. John offers a nod of greeting to the rest of the men assembled before him. His men. Sampson, Davies and McKenna return his greeting in kind, but John's attention is drawn to the young Private stood next to them. He's not seen this kid before – John knows everyone, so who is he? He's lanky, and John thinks that frankly a strong wind would snap him in two, but John doesn't doubt that his appearance is deceiving and that the lean muscles of those arms possess a good deal of strength. Unlike the others, he hasn't removed his helmet, but John can make out a wisp of blonde hair beneath it, and startling blue eyes. There's something otherworldly about him._

_John approaches, taking two steps towards him to greet him properly. The unknown Private keeps his head dipped until John asks his name. He lifts his head, his mouth forming the shape of an 'H' before the words are stolen from him as they are consumed by a strangled cry. When the gunfire rings out, all six men instinctively hit the ground, rolling over before reaching for their weapons. John looks up to take stock of the situation, and sighs as he sees that the newest of his men has hit the deck too. Everyone is accounted for and the relief swarms him as he inhales a deep and steadying breath in preparation to launch a counter attack._

_And then it catches up with him, at the same time that the shock wears off and it registers with the young lad too. The young Private is clutching at his chest, gasping and desperately scrambling for air, the warmth of his own blood spreading across his hand and chest. John doesn't think then. He doesn't recall how he got to his side, but he is there now. As the man, no boy, violently chokes, the crimson of his own blood staining his lips and face as it forces its way from his mouth, John knows his name. He knows it because his heart is screaming out, and warm tears are cascading down his face. He clutches him close as the blood pours from his gunshot wound, staining the sand beneath him, before he lifts his head to stare into the heavens and violently screams, “Hamish!”_

***

Sherlock pulled John forcefully into his arms, forming a protective cocoon around him whilst murmuring his name into his ear.

“Shh, John”, he whispered soothingly. “Come back to me. Come on. It's okay.”

John gasped for air as he was brought violently back into consciousness, grasping at Sherlock's shirt. He nestled in as close to Sherlock as humanly possible, desperately seeking warmth and security burrowed in Sherlock's tight embrace. Sherlock clung to him, waiting patiently for the choked sobs to subside and gently kissing the top of his head.

“I'm here”, he mumbled softly between kisses. He'd not had to do this in so long, the nightmares which had plagued John so often had almost faded completely over the years, with John only suffering them mildly ever few months. It'd been years, or even decades, since one had provoked such a traumatised and nightmarish reaction. Sherlock could feel John almost shaking in his arms. Nightmares of the war had always been bad, but never like this. Something was different now.

John calmed, and so Sherlock cautiously probed.

“Something was different about this one”, he commented simply, allowing John the space to add what he wished or to ignore the remark completely. He felt John nod against his chest, and his hand tighten its grip on his shirt.

“Hamish”, came the muffled response against his chest.

And if the accusations that Sherlock Holmes didn't have a heart were true, it was because it'd just crumbled into ash inside him.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was gone by the time John woke the next morning. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to rise before him, he often did; wandering out into the flat to busy himself whilst John slept on undisturbed. It was a rhythm they'd settled into long ago, John adapting to comfortably sleep through Sherlock's early morning violin sessions. 

Sherlock's violin routine had halted when Hamish was born and he took to laying awake in bed in the mornings for fear that even the softest of footsteps would rouse their son from his delicate slumber. He'd sit, stifled and rigid with tension, until he felt the slight movement of John waking beside him or the gurgled babbling of his son through the baby monitor. This practice had been put to an end by John's insistence that Sherlock needn't stifle himself so heavily for the sake of not waking them. John had assured him that Hamish was a heavy sleeper and that as long as Sherlock avoided the violin and anything remotely explosive, all would be well. Not to mention that having to remain still and silent made the detective irritable, and John was always keen to nip Sherlock's black moods in the bud before they had the opportunity to evolve. 

In the early mornings, when Hamish cried, Sherlock would be the one to go to him, soothing him back into a contented sleep or quietly playing with him to keep him happy. Sherlock insisted upon this, wanting John to sleep until it was really necessary for him to wake ready for his morning shifts at the clinic. John did his fair share overnight, but Sherlock was always the one to take on the early morning tears, successfully allowing John a precious extra hour or so of sleep. John had protested initially, feeling guilty that Sherlock had taken on sole responsibility for their son in the early hours, and feeling that he himself wasn’t effectively pulling his weight. Sherlock assured him that such guilt was ridiculous and they soon settled into the regular routine of it; Sherlock minding Hamish in the early hours, and John taking on the role of primary parent for a few hours upon his return from work to allow Sherlock to visit Scotland Yard, or perform any tests he needed to complete in peace. It suited them both, this kind of working relationship, and still allowed plenty of time for them to spend together. John's favourite mornings were weekends, when Sherlock would bring Hamish into their bedroom and John would awake slowly to the sound of his son's soft babbling from Sherlock's lap beside him. Hamish would greet John with a soft bop on the nose, and John would respond by gently pressing a kiss to easy of his son's tiny digits. They would all rise together on these mornings, John pulling his young son tightly into his arms and holding him to his chest as they moved into the kitchen for breakfast. Hamish would curl his fist around John's dog tags, clinging ever so lightly to them. This morning routine crumbled as Hamish grew older and became increasingly repulsed by early mornings; early mornings being defined as any hour before midday. And so Sherlock went back to his early morning violin recitals and John, once again, got used to waking up to find him gone from their bed each morning.

John sat up in bed, straining his ears to pick out some sign of the detective from the silence of the flat, but he detected nothing but silence. It was disconcerting. Sherlock's violin had become his silence to the point where complete silence was both alien and down right terrifying. His breath hitched, his breathing halted and his body stiffened completely, as his ears desperately sought some sign of the detective. John's heart and lungs stuttered back into a relieved rhythm as the soft sound of Sherlock's bow drawing out three long and low notes across the strings of his violin drifted in a gentle whisper through the flat. Another silence followed, but John was at ease with the delicate resonance of the last three notes still tickling the air and lightly gracing his ear drums. Another note, this time shorter and a little higher, trembled under the meeting of the bow and strings as John made his way through the flat. 

Sherlock was stood at the window; his dressing gown hung loosely from the lean form silhouetted against the amber glow of the sunrise. His violin rested neatly under his chin as he managed to scrawl a few notations on the sheet music in front of him. Before he cold resume, taking his bow in his hand once more, John spoke.

“Composing a new piece?”, he asked lightly. 

“Finishing an old one,” came Sherlock's hushed response. 

John silently sank into the soft and welcoming cradle of his armchair before pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Sherlock took his bow in his hand once more, and began to play his newly completed melody. The music wasn't as lively and melodic as some of Sherlock's compositions had been in the past, and yet it wasn't at the other end of Sherlock's musical spectrum; it wasn't dark and brooding. The notes danced in the space between them, tenderly coming together to form a soft lullaby. John let the music cloak him, work around him, easing the tension from his muscles as he sank further into the plush fabric of his armchair. Sherlock's movements, as always, were elegant and fluid; manipulating the bow and strings to sing his own soft hymn. Sherlock's arms, gingerly cradling the instrument, span an exquisite harmony, weaving a composition of silk and sweetness. 

The soft reverberation of each note, the gentle caress of each sound, sang of those serene and lazy Sunday mornings. They chimed of the laughter of a little boy bouncing energetically on his parents' bed, his squeals as he was tackled into the duvet and tickled into submission. They carried the scent of powder and honey suckle and the touch of tender finger tips grasping at thin air and seeking purchase in the soft cotton of John's shirt. 

As the rhythm of Sherlock's strokes dropped into a slower and deeper tone, John was struck with the desperate but heart warming familiarity of it. He was struck blind by the memory that swarmed his synapses, neurons coordinating in a gallery of nostalgic images. 

 _John blinked the sleep from his eyes as the soft murmur of disjointed violin music roused him from his slumber. He stretched, flexing each of his muscles in turn to urge them back into life, before pulling on a t-shirt and a scruffy pair of jeans and padding groggily into the living room. The sight before him made his heart swell with adoration in his chest. Sherlock was stood, as normal, by the window, but it was not his hands which balanced the instrument. A 12 year old Hamish stood in front of him, his hands guided gently by Sherlock's as the violin rested slightly clumsily under his chin. Sherlock assisted in Hamish's movement of the bow against the violin's strings, helping to draw out a deep, long note which hummed gently around the contours of the room. John smiled as Sherlock lifted his hands away and Hamish managed to produce a succession of notes in a unique ditty, the notes to which Sherlock scribbled hastily onto a scrap of paper before stuffing it unceremoniously into the left pocket of his dressing gown._  

 _Hamish turned to grin at Sherlock, the bright white of his smile radiating pride. He spied John from across the room, and his grin widened further. Sherlock, also detecting John's presence, turned on the spot and offered his own warm, contented smile. Resting the violin down carefully into Sherlock’s waiting hands, Hamish bounded over to John boasting of his newly acquired skill. All three of them were beaming, the walls absorbing each ray of the delight which was thrumming through their bodies, just as it had the smooth tones of the notes Hamish had just played._  

Recognising that same sequence of notes from a lazy morning which felt like a millennia ago, John allowed the warmth of the memory to display itself as a small smile on his face. As the piece came to an end, and the silence was left weighted with the dizzying nostalgia and longing, he felt the heated trail left by a single tear tumbling over his cheek. He swallowed thickly, fighting limply against the tightness in his throat. 

“What's it called?” he eventually croaked out faintly. And as Sherlock turned, his own face streaked with the evidence of the paths of tears, John hardly needed the verbal response which followed.

“Hamish.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I am so sorry! I had a draft for this when I posted the last chapter but I somehow lost it and, well, with life being as hectic as it is lately with Uni prep and whatnot, a rewrite has taken me a while! But here you go. Enjoy?
> 
> (EDIT: Side note, if you want to keep up with goings on between updates you can follow me at hey-tesbutt.tumblr.com I usually moan about my writing woes on there and sometimes also ask for help with the tiniest of details so if you're down for that come join me)

It was John who eventually broke the spell of silence which had descended as they picked at their breakfast.

 “Forensic Psychology”, he said as he discarded his cutlery onto his now empty plate. He let out a small 'hm' as if running the words experimentally through his mouth, seeing how well they fitted. “I didn't expect that.” 

Sherlock raised his gaze from the paper which he lowered slightly. “Makes perfect sense”, he commented before dropping his eyes back to the article he'd been perusing. 

John quirked an eyebrow. “You reckon? I don't know. Seems a bit out of the blue for him, I've never seen him express an interest in it before." 

“It's an obvious choice” Sherlock confirmed as he lowered his paper and folded it in half, resting it to one side. “The forensic side is my influence. He needs a puzzle, a mystery, something to test him and keep him occupied.” Something in Sherlock's eyes seemed to ignite, glowing with scorching excitement, anticipation, pride. “He needs the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins. That unbeatable feeling of being wrapped up in a mystery. He needs the crime, John. It's in his blood.” His gaze softened, his face softening with it into a gentle smile. “But then there's you.” 

“Psychology? You think that's because of me?” The creases of John's brow deepened as his eyebrows seemed to knit together, seeking comprehension of Sherlock's theory. 

“Psychology is _people_ , John. It's human nature. It's understanding. It's sentiment.” The detective averted his eyes, directing them to inspect an old burn mark on the table. “It's you”, he added in a quiet murmur.

 John reached across the table to take Sherlock's hand in his own. He gave it a light, reassuring squeeze and offered a soft smile. “It's you too, you know. 18 years ago I wouldn't have said the same but...” he took a long drag of air before continuing. “That humanity is as much from you as it is me, Sherlock.”

 Sherlock was silent, as he always was when faced with his own humanity. There was a time where he'd grunt in discontented opposition, contest any implication that somewhere within him there was the capacity for sentiment. Now, however, it merely silenced him. He'd withdraw to wallow in his own discomfort, still terrified by the vulnerability that his heart exposed him to. He didn't object to it as vehemently as in those early days, he just allowed the words to stagnate in the air. John's brow would always furrow at the way Sherlock's mouth formed a tight line, baffled by the detective’s propensity to still shy away from the way his heart sometimes betrayed him. He'd given himself to John over the years, and heaven knows they'd had numerous conversations about the ideas that Mycroft had planted in Sherlock's head from a young age about love's definition as nothing more than a dangerous weakness. They'd started as arguments; John's frustration manifesting itself, but then John's approach shifted. Arguing with Sherlock Holmes to try and change his steadfast beliefs about love was as effective as a chocolate teapot, and so John devoted his time to making sure Sherlock was loved so wholly and deeply that he could do nothing but reap the benefits.

 He made it his mission, one which he embarked upon with furiously passionate devotion. Anyone else would have failed to register the effects it had on the detective. They still saw the cold, impenetrable exterior they'd always known, but John could see that his efforts had not been in vain. He saw it in those softened gazes and adoring smiles he was blessed with. He felt it in the gentle touches, the ghosting of skin on skin, the subtle caresses, the way Sherlock would reach for John's hand in the back of a cab. This evolved into minuscule and almost undetectable changes in Sherlock's behaviour in those frequent cab rides; the way John could feel just a slight increase in the heat from Sherlock's body, a slight and gradual decrease in the inches of those worn back seats between them. He could hear it in Sherlock's compositions, see it in the contrast between his lazy gracing of strings and the carefree and jovial movements he made around the flat as he played when noone but John was watching. Later, John saw it in the way Sherlock gingerly cradled their son, the way his mouth formed a lazy but radiant smile. He heard it in Sherlock's quiet murmurs to Hamish as he was sleeping.

Changes in his temperament so subtle that they almost weren't there; just gentle shadows and slivers of progress, but Sherlock's sharp edges had softened. The coarse shards of his character had become velvet. And yet, he still became guarded and withdrawn in the face of these new truths. He folded inwards, like the delicate new petals of a flower shying away from their own beauty. The man he had become still unsettled him, still caught him off guard, still _surprised_ him; he was so startled by the prospect of his own humanity that he simply turned away from it. 

Here they were again, the air crackling with the static of silence around them. When Sherlock eventually roused himself from his reclusive thoughts a minute or so later, he smiled tightly; a smile that struggled to permeate his gaze. 

“He'll be brilliant”, he stated matter-of-factly, and John had no doubt of _that_ at all.

 ***

The next 11 days in the hospital limped by.

The nurse was kind, efficient and unobtrusive. She finally introduced herself as Jenny on her rounds the morning after John and Sherlock returned to the hospital. She always left attending to Hamish until the end of her daily rounds, so she could stay longer. John conversed with her as she checked Hamish's vitals, updated his charts and made sure he was comfortable. She was meticulous in her care of him, carrying out her duties with rigorous efficiency, and yet her temperament was one of calm auras and gentle words. John found her to be easy company, and he was endlessly grateful for the routine she provided and the kindness she granted both him and Sherlock. Even Sherlock did not mind her presence even as her stays on shift became longer and more frequent and, though he chose not to speak to her, he was neither cold nor short with her. He'd offer her a small smile of gratitude which she'd accept gracefully each morning, and that was the extent of their interactions, but neither of them seemed to mind. She never overstayed her welcome either, despite staying long after she’d completed her rounds.

Benson paid regular visits. Daily, in fact. Sometimes his wife joined him on these visits bringing with her offerings of home-cooked food. The scent of lovingly-crafted, sweet, cinnamon buns and warm chicken soup that drifted through those double doors after her brought with it a gentle hum of nostalgia. She provided the kind of mothering that reminded both John and Sherlock so warmly of Mrs Hudson. She, like the nurse, never overstayed her welcome. She offered enough comfort, but gave Sherlock and John valuable time alone, time that they needed, even if they don’t know they needed it.

Sarah was slight, petite, and fragile looking, but her eyes burned with a bright green ferocity of compassion that John found startling. Despite her small frame, she seemed to fill the room with something akin to angelic possession; the endless reach of her light and warmth filling every crack and crevice. John's heart warmed at the way she'd always run one small hand through Hamish's light curls in a gentle soothing motion, treating him as her own, and whispering what John assumed was a soft prayer. 

  
Time would pass easily with George and Sarah. It became less like trudging through mud, the endless expanse of a Somme-like battlefield, and more like a gentle stroll, as though the same expanse had blossomed, sprouting the life of long grass peppered with red and white flowers.

They chatted idly, about everything and anything, and even Sherlock felt inclination to offer the odd baritone contribution on occasion. Though he knew that the detective would not admit as such, John was certain that Sherlock had taken a liking to Sarah. She was intelligent, wise beyond the years that her face gave away, yet youthful almost to the point of innocence. She wouldn't bother him, she never intruded upon his quiet brooding. She only spoke to him if he spoke first, which was rare but not wholly non-existent. Brief, simple comments, but laden with neither the sarcasm nor animosity which he so often directed at the majority of the population. John felt a silent pride seeing Sherlock so amenable, and though John wished their meeting could have been under different circumstances, he was glad that Benson had finally introduced them both to his wife.

If John could bottle the warmth that came from the knowing smile Benson shot him on that first meeting, he was certain he could market it. A smile that simply said _I know. She's wonderful._ A silent understanding, pride and joy.

“What does she say?” John asked George, quietly, on one such morning, as Sarah stood by Hamish's bed once more, leaving her daily caress along his forehead. “She whispers a verse to him. Every time”, he added, by way of explanation. “It's in Gaelic, I think, so I assume you taught it to her.”

George smiled; a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “A blessing.” He shifted his gaze to his feet. “May the embers from the open hearth warm your hands”, he began reciting softly. “May the sun's rays from the Irish sky warm your face, May the children's bright smiles warm your heart, May the everlasting love I give you warm your soul.”

John frowned slightly. In Gaelic, the words carried such a heartfelt sincerity in Sarah's rehearsed whispers that he couldn't help but be moved by them, but their English counterparts seemed ill-fitting and out of place. The translation proved to be a blessing that was seemingly alien from a woman who was essentially a stranger to his son. Sure, John appreciated the sentiment it carried, and the blessing was sweet and smooth like honey in Sarah's polished tones, but its English meaning felt foreign in the air between them.

“It's not the words”, George said from beside him, apparently sensing his old Captain's confusion. “It's the blessing. It's the one I used when...” he took a breath, “when we were still trying.”

The impact sent John reeling. Those hushed Gaelic syllables were wishes of good health, wishes of luck and good fortune. They were wishes of happiness and love. But more than that, they were the words of a mother who never was, and John's heart just ached for them both. It choked him, gripping at his heart and pushing violently against his ribcage. He had a son. A beautiful, wonderful, talented, intelligent son, and he had so nearly lost him. John Watson was blinded by just how _blessed_ he was. How blessed _they_ were, him and Sherlock, to have their son. He was angry with himself. Angry with Sherlock. Angry that he ever let something jeopardise _this_ when he was so lucky to even have it at all.

“Thank you”, was all he could offer, meekly, in response, and he continued to thank them. Daily.

Hamish's birthday passed silently. Nobody visited then. Even the nurse made herself scarce after completing her duties.

John and Sherlock were left alone, hands joined for hours on end across Hamish's hospital bed, not saying a word. John found himself fingering through the pile of birthday cards that he'd brought back with him from the flat, smiling to himself at the multitude of coloured envelopes, before resting them gently back onto the bedside table.

Later, Sherlock found himself restless, and John found himself to be irritable in response, thrumming with a prickly energy. In fact, he was furious. He was so angry he could barely see straight. It was his only Son's _18_ _th_ _Birthday_ and he was spending it in a coma.

Sherlock produced his violin in the evening, playing _Hamish_ again, the composition acting as a fitting tribute on this day of all days. John found himself crying openly; choked sobs of hurt and remorse. Then he found himself in Sherlock's arms; warm and tight and protective.

That's how they stayed that night. John, cocooned in Sherlock's arms, drifting slowly into sleep lulled by the fading footprints of the notes in the air.

**

Mycroft didn’t dare to show his face, but his input was felt. Hamish was made more than comfortable, even as the steady flow of his medication was reduced as the days passed. They were in a private ward, all press attention and communications for Sherlock were diverted. Mycroft had ensured that their time in hospital was spent in complete peace from the outside world, and as much as they loathed to admit it both John and Sherlock were grateful. Hamish underwent his treatment undisturbed and uninterrupted by press attention, and John had never been more thankful of the seemingly endless power that Mycroft possessed over everyone and everything. As the days passed, the medication that was keeping Hamish comatose was reduced, until the only thing keeping him unconscious was his own body's healing processes. John found himself afraid to sleep, to leave Hamish's side for even a second, in case he roused from his slumber. But as hours turned into days, John had to grapple with reality, even whilst desperately trying to keep one hand wrapped round his own misguided hope. His medical mind told him that there was simply no knowing how much longer the healing process would take, and he grew weary. He grew worn and frustrated.

Lestrade visited.

Just the once. Long enough to offer his best wishes and an uncomfortable apology. John found himself bristling through the entire encounter, his sour mood increasing tenfold and threatening to surge from him at any moment. Sherlock was rigid, uptight and cold, and Lestrade was not so dense as to not take the hint. He swiftly made his excuses and left, but the tension in the room still crackled in the air. It sparked like electricity, flooded the room like gas teasing at the air, waiting for the igniting spark.

The match was struck, and the explosion was deafening.

John threw hasty accusations that Sherlock had created a rift between them and Lestrade, that his stupid stunt had made their friendship and working relationship uncomfortable. Sherlock, to his credit, tried to defend Lestrade as far as he could, trying to take the brunt of the blame. But John was like an angry bull, and each of Sherlock's frantic excuses, each of his desperate attempts to apologise and to calm John down, acted only as another red flag. His rage was white hot, scalding and bitter, and then it was red, a fiery passionate rage. It was the sizzling heartbreak all over again.

John's roaring inferno eventually dwindled and they fell into silence. They didn’t speak for the rest of the day, and as the sun retreated over the horizon, as if retiring into a trench before rising again on the war zone the next day, the silence did not falter.

Not until the next morning, when it was so gingerly pierced by the soft sound of a raspy voice from the bed beside them. “Dad?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so SO sorry for the long hiatus. University kinda got on top of me the last few months. Unfortunately I've been stuck writing essays and reports rather than what I want to be writing...but I'm back for now! Here's a short chapter to keep you going for now.

Hamish still spent a lot of his time sleeping. He struggled to stay awake for much over 40 minutes at a time for the first few days. This increased to an hour or so by the end of the week, but his body was still recovering, and so he remained much the same; sleeping for 4 or 5 hours at a time, and then waking for short periods.

John didn't want to delve into anything too serious in the time he had Hamish's conscious attention, and so their conversations remained trivial and light-hearted. John repressed the urge to discuss what had happened, compressing his emotions into a tight and distant corner of his mind. He also fought against the desire to discuss Hamish's University application, which proved the harder of the two tasks, because John was excited beyond all possible reason. His hand would unconsciously drift to rest over the pocket of his jacket which contained Hamish’s acceptance letter. He hadn’t given it to him yet, he wanted to wait until his son was feeling stronger. And yet, he was so desperate to see his son read those printed words, to realise his achievement. John was anxious to start making plans, to start traversing the new road that Hamish was bound for; the preparation for one of the greatest leaps of his life. 

He found himself pondering the course choice in Hamish's sleeping hours. He was curious, he'd not seen any inclination towards the subject previously. Then again, he thought, he seemed to have missed a lot regarding his son lately. Maybe this was just the latest in a long line of things he'd not allowed himself the time to notice. He figured that Sherlock's theory was plausible enough, but he couldn't help the tiny little tapping of doubt from somewhere right in the back of his mind.

As Hamish got stronger over the coming days, he used his waking time productively, requesting various text books and journals to be brought from the flat and studying them intensively whilst scrawling almost illegible notes on various post-it notes and scraps of paper. The variety of text books that had been lined up, snugly and neatly nestled against each other on Hamish's bookshelf, was surprising. John had anticipated that, having a similarly scientific mind to Sherlock, Hamish's course books would consist of the sciences, perhaps interspersed with a few mathematical texts. To an extent, he was right. To one end of the perfectly alphabetised collection were two Chemistry text books, followed by a thick Engineering study guide, but subsequent texts threw John slightly. Three perfectly leather bound history books; one's gold title proclaiming it as a complete guide to the second World War, the second a comprehensive guide to British foreign policy 1910-1960, and the third a student's guide to the Third Reich and the Rise of Fascism in Europe. He smiled to himself, remembering a particular Thursday afternoon some 10 years previous, with an 8-year-old Hamish lying on his stomach, head resting in his palms, in front of the TV; thoroughly entranced by Guy Hamilton’s _Battle of Britain_ and the old documentary which followed.

It was the final chunky book of his son’s collection which drew John’s attention the most. A worn and well-read copy of Shakespeare’s complete works, littered with various scraps of paper and post it notes marking various pages. These, as John later learned, contained Hamish’s favourite quotes, with the dog-eared pages indicating the frequency of Hamish’s perusal of them. John couldn’t say he was surprised that Hamish owned such a literary classic, but he was surprised that he didn’t possess this well-loved copy because he was studying it.

“I didn’t know you did literature, ‘Mish”, he commented.

“I don’t”, his son replied nonchalantly, without raising his gaze from the page in front of him.

“You’re reading that just for fun?” John inquired, somewhat taken aback.

“Procrastinating”, Hamish clarified matter-of-factly.

Of course he was. Of course Hamish Watson-Holmes would frequent the famous verses of Hamlet and Othello to _procrastinate._   John found himself having to confiscate the heavy collaboration of pages from his son out of principle, so he would actually get on with some proper studying for his exams. He scoffed a laugh at the situation. There was something completely alien and just _plain wrong_ with stopping anyone reading such classic prices of literature, even for such a reason as to ensure Hamish's exam success.

Hamish scowled, and this only made John laugh more.

"You know, 'Mish," he began as he briefly skimmed the page of _Hamlet_  Hamish had been engrossed in and surveyed his son's scruffy notes which bordered the page. "Most parents have to confiscate games consoles around exam time. I never thought I'd find myself denying you access to the bard".

Hamish's scowl faltered as his mouth quirked upwards slightly. "When have you ever known me to be normal?" John couldn't deny the obvious; Hamish nothing if not extraordinary. That much was certain, but John couldn't help the slight pang of sorrow that Hamish seemingly viewed this as anything less than the blessing that it was. His doubt was promptly shattered as his son's grin widened, indicating his jesting nature, and he continued. "I mean, I didn't stand much of a chance with my parentage did I? After all, one of my Dads is arguably one of the greatest minds to ever live..." He paused briefly, looking away from John as he allowed the words to settle as a gentle warmth over him. "...and the other is Sherlock Holmes."

John had to do a double take. He'd been gently nodding and smiling to himself in agreement at his son's praise of Sherlock, the man he'd chosen to love, the man he'd waited 2 years  for and never given up hope on. The delay was the fault of his own lack of attention to what his son was saying, his assumption that those words were of course about Sherlock. Not once would he ever have himself believe that words which sung such praise and admirtaion were intended for him. But when the reality of Hamish's praise caught up with him, he found it difficult to breathe past the lump forming in his  throat.

He silently placed the Shakespearean literature he was still clutching on the end of the bed, before moving over to Hamish's side. He leant down, planting a gentle kiss  on the mop of blonde unruly curls which covered Hamish's head. As he moved away, replacing the tender gesture with a gentle ruffle of his hands  through Hamish's hair, his other hand went to the letter that had been pressed closed to his heart. He withdrew it, and without a word pressed it into his son's  hands.

Hamish glanced at it and then back at his Dad, the desperate hope and anticipation burning in those startling blue eyes. A small nod from John followed,and the letter was opened and read.

"I've been accepted." He said blinking slightly in disbelief. "I've been accepted by Kings."

There was a moment of silence, before Hamish's grin threatened to split his face in two and he laughed; heartily and unreservedly.

And John laughed too, because everything really was going to be okay.

"We're so proud of you, 'Mish. But remember that offer is conditional upon you passing, so no more Shakespeare!" He chided mockingly, wagging his finger.

"Yes sir!" Hamish rejoined, giving a salute.

"And enough of the cheek," John added, ruffling his son's hair again.

"Dad, get off" he mumbled, pulling away with an over dramatic pout.

“I love you, kid”

Hamish gave a sad smile, a smile that screamed of how underserving of that love he felt radiating from his Dad. He swallowed thickly.

“I love you too, Dad.” He set his books down, turning over in his bed so John was left staring at his back. “…and I’m sorry”, he added in a tiny whisper before letting sleep take him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George and Hamish have a heart to heart, and Hamish learns something about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back...anyone still out there?
> 
> This chapter in memory of my lovely father who's missed always, a year on.

"Dad, just go. I'll be fine."

John was anxious to see Sherlock, he had been for hours, and Hamish was well aware of this. Sherlock had been occupying himself at Bart's to keep the idleness of the hospital from driving him, and John, insane. But now, John was struggling to focus on his book. He was suffering the confines of the hospital too. Hamish was doing better now, he was still napping during the day, but his strength was increasing, and he was able to sit in the chair by the side of his bed for short periods. He was a long way off being able to care for himself, but he was far less dependent now.

John huffed a breath before closing his book silently and moving to Hamish’s bedside. He pressed a short but firm kiss to his son’s forehead. Ordinarily Hamish would object, but this time he leaned in slightly to absorb the affectionate warmth rolling off his Dad.

“I’ll only be a few hours, call me if you need anything, okay?”

Hamish rolled his eyes mockingly, “Dad. Seriously. Go. I’ll call Benson if I get too bored.”

John considered this for a moment, and proceeded to pull his phone from his pocket and formulate a text.

_Going to Bart’s for a few hours. Mind keeping Hamish company? Make sure he does some studying. JW_

Benson’s response came almost instantly.

_Sarah and I were on our way over with food anyway. ETA 5 minutes._

“He’s on his way. Behave.” John said, pointing sternly at his son.

“You’d be better off telling him that, Dad.” Hamish remarked with a chuckle.

John’s face split into a grin as he said one last goodbye, and as he left the hospital he felt lighter, drifting in the aura of his son's apparent fondness of his old army companion. There was an affection in Hamish's voice, a softness in his face as he spoke of him, the jovial remark towards Benson's trouble making nature that John knew all too well was wholly accurate.

Benson had resurfaced at the perfect moment in their lives, and if John believed in fate at all he'd be eternally grateful to her.

\--------

"I should go back and clean the flat up a bit," John remarked into the silence of the St Bart's lab that Sherlock had confined himself to.  
  
He understood the redundancy of the sentiment before it'd even left his lips. Mrs Hudson's niece would have already seen to it that the flat be tended to.  
  
Nina had always been meticulous in her care of the flats and their tenants, including her aunt. Mrs Hudson was getting too old to keep scaling the stairs now, so Nina had taken the reigns. Mrs Hudson was still, in spirit, as lively as ever. John smiled at the thought of her calling up the stairs to Nina “You’re not their housekeeper, love!” - though perhaps not this time. John had a feeling that Mrs Hudson would be driving poor Nina up the wall with her endless and restless need to do something to help. She’d already sent Nina to the hospital bearing a basket of Hamish's favourite sweet treats from his childhood; cinnamon swirls, apple danishes, custard tarts.  
  
Sherlock hardly made a murmur in response to John's comment, choosing instead to keep his eye firmly fixated on whatever was squirming on the slide under his microscope. John sighed. Smalltalk rarely engaged Sherlock on the best of days and using it to avoid the elephant in the room was clearly not going to work. John needed to tackle this head on; there was no other option. It was time for Captain Watson to take charge.

“We have a lot of talking to do, Sherlock,” he said firmly.

Sherlock finally raised his gaze, and nodded sharply, yet remained silent.

“But I’ll be honest with you, I don’t even know where to start.” John continued, before running one hand over his face in frustration

\------

Hamish had drifted off to sleep by the time Benson had arrived, his hand still loosely cradling a stubby pencil and his journal lying open and face down on his chest.

He turned to his wife, with a finger pressed over his lips to indicate the need for silence. She nodded, sweeping in quietly to deposit the small Tupperware box with a selection of the fruits of her afternoon’s labour on the bedside cabinet. She excused herself, pausing to look back over her shoulder as she left the room and smiling fondly as George took his post by Hamish’s bedside.

He had gently prized the notebook and pencil from Hamish’s limp grasp as he’d sat down. Curious, he leafed through the sketches within. Page after page were sketches of aircraft, some which Benson recognized form his time on the front line; Typhoon jets, Chinook helicopters, others which were older than his lifetime but their position in British military history making them known to him: the Spitfire, Lancaster Bomber.  He made a mental note of this for later. He had some favours he could call in, and this kid hadn’t had much of an 18th birthday. He wanted to resolve this as soon as Hamish was well enough, and his exams were out of the way.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a nurse opening the door behind him, pulling medical equipment behind her. She made her way round the bed, with a thermometer and a cuff. She placed a gentle hand on Hamish’s shoulder to rouse him.

“Sorry, Hamish. I need to take your temperature and blood pressure again, my sweet.”

Hamish groaned as he came to, as teenagers do when they’re woken up against their will, or made to do anything in fact.

He adjusted himself slightly so he was sitting up a little more, and the nurse reached behind him to adjust the pile of pillows propping him up before going about her duties.

“Hey.” he said, acknowledging George’s presence. His voice was croaky, and his throat was dry. George poured some water from the plastic jug at Hamish’s bedside, which Hamish accepted gratefully.

“How you feelin’ kid?”

“I’ve had better days.” came the reply.

“Well, I’m happy with your BP and temperature,” the nurse piped up. “Someone will be round to replace your IV shortly, but shout if there’s anything else we can do to make you more comfortable.”

They both thanked her as she left the room.

“How’s the pain?”

Hamish quirked his head back towards where the painkillers were being fed through his IV drip. “This stuff’s pretty good, I just try not to move too much. Getting shot hurts like a mother-”

“Watch it,” George warned mockingly, “I’ll be telling your Dad you’ve got a potty mouth!”

Hamish chuckled slightly, wincing a little at the pain that tiny movement caused. “Are you here to babysit me?” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief akin to that of a 8 year old.

“Well I was told to make sure you did some studying – so which subject do you want to start on?”

“You could probably help me with some Chemistry revision.”

“Is that not one your Dads are better suited to?”

Hamish rolled his eyes, “Oh god no. They’re both as bad as each other in correcting the text book every other page. I don’t think they realise I’m getting an A level and not a PhD…” he laughed, “And, I’ll let you into a secret…I don’t always want to know everything about everything. Sometimes I want to do the bare minimum.” He chuckled.

George smiled. For all his intellect, and his extraordinary life, Hamish was so heartwarmingly _ordinary_.

“Bare minimum doesn’t get you into Kings.”

“Has Dad told everyone my news?” Hamish said in mock annoyance.

“I think he’s so proud he’d have burst if he’d not told someone.”

Hamish smiled, but George noted it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. The boy who was so impassioned about the cause to help people in that lab just a few short weeks prior seemed to be a distant memory from the boy he was seeing before him now. That wasn’t to say Hamish didn’t care, it was clear he bore a large burden of responsibility with the gifts he possessed. It was clear he wanted to pursue the course he had chosen, and he was motivated to do so – fiercely so. He had his Dad’s passion, that thirst for justice and burning desire to do right by everyone burning hot and bright at the core of his being. He was painfully selfless, and George wondered whether the ‘right thing’, was necessarily the right thing _for Hamish._

“When I was your age,” he began, gaze drifting off to stare at a point beyond Hamish’s face, on the opposite wall “I lost my Dad.”

Hamish’s brow furrowed in confusion at the change in conversation, but remained silent.

“It destroyed me. I was consumed by guilt, every waking hour, that I’d never done enough to spend time with him. That I was so focused on everything else that I forgot to be his son.” He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat. “So I compensated after he died. From then onwards, _everything_ I did was in his name. I woke up every single day and asked myself _What can I do to make him proud today?_ And I lived my life by that ethos for 2 years. I abandoned everything I knew and took on the family business, retrained as a plumber. I wanted to do everything I could to be a credit to him, and I put so much pressure on myself to be his legacy.”

“Why?”

“Because he was my hero. I got this feeling I couldn’t explain. Like my heart was filling up with memories of my Dad, with everything he’d ever achieved, and everyone he’d ever touched. Everything he’d ever been. I was so proud to be his son, and so desperate to echo what he lived for that I didn’t leave myself any room to feel anything else, or be anything else. It didn’t hit me until I found the army. I’d never known a feeling like it. The excitement. I realised I wasn’t happy before…I wasn’t even me.”

Hamish was looking at his hands now, a sadness passing across his features. He knew where George was coming from. The story was different, but it was the same in so many ways. He poured his heart into becoming the man who would do the Watson-Holmes name proud, into being a perfect reflection of the best of both his parents. He took immense pride in his family, and he adored and admired his parents, but George had made him realise that what he felt every time Sherlock congratulated him on a deduction well made, or every time his Dad ruffled his hair with pride, was a form of happiness, but it wasn’t his. He liked the detective work, and he _was_ good at it, but how much of that enjoyment was his, and how much was a reflection of Sherlock’s?

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were the most iconic pairing to have ever walked the streets of London. The crimes they’d solved together and the lives they’d touched were beyond counting. Something swelled in his heart whenever he thought of everything they had achieved together, the men he had the privilege of calling his parents, his role models, his mentors, his heroes. That something was always tinged with something, a sharp, bitter edge on a warm comforting glow. Hamish could place it now; sadness. How could he ever amount to anything close to that? His parents weren’t just his heroes, they were London’s, nee _Britain’s_ , heroes too. He was overwhelmed by the pressure of just trying to make them as proud to call him their Son as he was to call them his parents.

“I realised…” Benson continued, apparently reading this thought, “…that my Dad wouldn’t want me to exhaust myself trying to live up to someone else when all I ever needed to be was _myself._ ”

Hamish gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve got some pretty big boots to fill though…”

George smiled warmly at him. “Don’t fill them, no one is expecting you to. Make your own boots. That’s something the army taught me.”

Hamish raised one questioning eyebrow “How to make your own boots?” The corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided, cheeky smirk.

George had to laugh. He sobered up just enough to offer his response.

“Someone who simply inspires you to be the best version of yourself you can be, that’s the true meaning of hero”. He paused, smiling warmly before continuing. “Now, I’m no detective, but even I can tell where your heart really lies.” He gently replaced the sketchbook he’d removed earlier into Hamish’s hands. “Maybe you should start listening to it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that, after all this time, this chapter delivers. I've been very nervous about posting more on this for a long time. But the next chapter is already in draft. I promise not to leave it so long again...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ['The True Meaning of Hero' cover image](https://archiveofourown.org/works/930227) by [Hedgepigs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgepigs/pseuds/Hedgepigs)




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